Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82893 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82893 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
The black-and-white photo is grainy, but the guy in the picture looks so much like the man on the bed that it’s almost startling.
Licking my lips, I place the small piece of paper under the edge of the lamp so it doesn’t fly off the nightstand again. Then, with the soup I ate for dinner sitting like a weight in the pit of my stomach, I grab the garbage can from the bathroom and put it next to the bed. Once I’m done, I shut off the light and turn the lock inside the door handle before leaving.
2
ELORA
45.8918° N, 123.9615° W
With my housekeeping cart loaded down with fresh towels, sheets, and cleaning supplies, I open the door and walk backward as I pull the cart into the breezeway. Shoving one earbud in, I press Play on the podcast I’ve been listening to for the past few days and head down the walkway toward the first room I need to clean this morning. As I’m about to take my keys out of my pocket, I see Ernest, the owner of The View, step out of the hotel office with his cane in hand and a box tucked under his arm.
“Elora, I was just coming to find you,” he says, walking toward me with a kind smile that accentuates his wrinkles.
“Is everything okay?” I take out my phone and press Pause on my show.
“A package just arrived for you.” He takes the box out from under his arm, where he was holding it as easily—and as carelessly—as a rolled-up newspaper, transferring the insignificant weight of the package to me.
“Is that it?”
It can’t be. How can all I’ve ever known of love fit into one little box that weighs nothing?
Grabbing my bottom lip between my teeth, I look at the mailing label taped to the box and try to force my heart to slow while the ground under my feet seems to waver.
“Yes.” I lift my gaze to his.
“When are you leaving?” The question is soft.
“I… I don’t know.” I swallow over the tightness in my throat. “Next week, maybe Monday,” I whisper, and his expression gentles.
“Colleen says you’ve been doing a great job. If you decide to stick around or want to come back after, you always have a place here.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you want me to hold the box in the office for you while—”
“No.” I shake my head, then soften my tone when he looks startled. “Sorry.” I press the box against my chest over my heart that is still beating wildly. “It’s okay. I’ll run it up to my room really quick.”
“All right.” He eyes the box before meeting my gaze once more. “I’ve gotten a couple of applications, so I’ll start making some phone calls to find your replacement.”
Dread. That’s the emotion that rushes through me as reality kicks in. I like it here; I like this town and the people I’ve met. This has been my home for five months, and I hate that I have to leave, but I know I can’t stick around. I’m just not sure what scares me more—the idea of being on my own again or the thought of being done with what I set out to do because I have no idea what will come after.
I force a smile. “Sounds good.”
“Good, and if you need anything, you know where to find me.”
“I do.” I keep my smile in place until he has wandered off. With a heavy weight on my shoulders, I move the housekeeping cart up against the wall so it doesn’t block the walkway.
After jogging upstairs to the second floor, I slow halfway across the covered breezeway when a pair of bright eyes that look an odd shade of blue under the cloud-covered sky land on me.
If he’s Roman, the brother mentioned in the obituary, his name fits him perfectly. Leaning against the railing with a paper cup in his hand that is steaming in the early morning air, he looks like a man lording over the commoners below. Even obviously hungover, he appears as if he could conquer a kingdom and rule an empire. Dragging my gaze off his, I walk to my door and open it, leaving it ajar after I enter my room.
I carefully place the box on top of the dresser, not ready to open it yet and turn to leave. But I come to a stop when I turn to find him standing in my doorway.
After last night, I don’t know how to interact with him. He was a dick, but knowing what I do—or at least assuming I know what he’s dealing with—I want to tell him I’m sorry. I want to tell him that I know acutely just how painful the loss of someone you love is. I understand it’s easier to deal with the pain when you’re not dealing with it at all but instead coping, using whatever means necessary.