Page 7 of More than Fiction (Misty Springs #1)

Corbin

As Andi promised , finding my taxi driver was easy enough—an overly talkative, balding, middle-aged man named Hank.

From the moment I climbed into the back seat, I was treated to a history lesson of Misty Springs I hadn’t asked for but seemed destined to endure.

Hank rambled on, his words spilling out faster than I could keep up with, turning what should’ve been a short ride into an eternity.

Finally, after what felt like hours of listening to Hank's life story and town trivia, we arrived at my destination: the only hotel in Misty Springs.

Elijah’s weathered sign shone in the darkening evening light, casting a faint glow on the otherwise quiet street. The hotel was a modest, two-story building with rooms with exterior entrances.

Exterior entrances? What was this, a Motel 6?

I shivered as I considered what the interior would look like, exactly how many stains my mattress would have, and what part of the body those stains came from.

I walked into the lobby, still skeptical but pleasantly surprised. The decor was modern, and everything was bright and clean.

My eyes skimmed past the empty front desk, landing on a set of open double doors. Flickering lights and the rattling booms of what sounded like an action-packed movie echoed through the quiet lobby.

Curiosity piqued, I walked toward the commotion, and the smell of something rich and savory clung to my nose as I approached .

I peered inside the open doorway, spotting groups of people sitting at tables, eating and laughing, while the movie Top Gun played in the background.

The place was packed. Based on the number of people, the entire hotel might be inside. I couldn’t recall ever staying at a hotel where guests watched movies together in a dining room. The situation was strange .

I lingered near the entrance. The iconic volleyball scene was just wrapping up when a whiteboard hung on the wall next to the door caught my eye.

I read what appeared to be a themed menu written in elegant, colorful handwriting.

Maverick’s Mach II Meatball Sub: A turbocharged meatball sub served on a long, toasted hoagie roll

Iceman’s Chill - made with blue curacao, lemonade, and a hint of mint to cool down the heat

A movie and a themed dinner? Just as I was about to chuckle at the absurdity of it all, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

Turning, I was met by a woman with piercing green eyes and copper red hair. She was almost as stunning as the woman in 1C, almost.

“Mr. Buescher?” she asked, her tone light and curious.

“Yes. You know who I am?” I suppose it would make sense for someone to have heard about me here. Maybe some page-six news had gone viral enough to reach sleepy towns like this one.

“Yeah, well, you’re our last guest checking in tonight, and your luggage—and the confused look on your face—kind of gave it away,” she replied, her tone flat, turning to walk toward the front desk without even asking me to follow her.

Oh. Fair enough.

I followed her over to the front desk, dragging my feet more out of bruised ego than fatigue.

She moved through the check-in process like she was on autopilot—efficient, detached, and entirely unimpressed.

Not by my usual lines. Not by the casual flash of my watch. Not even by my tabloid-quoted “panty-dropping” smile .

It was… humbling.

The rest of our exchange was a well-rehearsed information dump—meal hours, gym access (there wasn’t one), and how to reach the front desk for assistance (though it was unmanned from 12 a.m. to 6 a.m.).

She handed me my room key—an actual, physical key, the kind you insert into a lock and turn. The weight of the key in my hand felt almost foreign, as if I’d just stepped into a time capsule disguised as a hotel.

Without much more interaction, the woman—Cassie, according to her nametag, not that she bothered to introduce herself—plastered on a clearly fake smile and told me to enjoy my evening.

I grumbled, sauntering outside and up the stairs toward my room. Sliding the key into the lock felt strange—unfamiliar, but oddly nostalgic. And once inside, I was proven wrong about this place all over again.

The room had light-colored walls with a simple wallpaper, a sleek gray and black bedspread, a large flatscreen, and a small black recliner chair in the corner.

It wasn’t much, but it was pretty damn charming .

I smirked as I recalled the woman on the plane’s parting words to me.

1C had my full attention when she gave a little stretch, arching her back, her chest jutting forward just enough to make me wonder if it was intentional. When she flashed me that smile, it had an edge to it—something playful, maybe even a little dangerous.

I couldn’t tell if I should be scared or turned on.

I think I was both.

As soon as she vanished, I found myself scanning the terminal, my gaze drifting toward the luggage carousel, hoping to spot her again.

Though she lingered in my mind, I wasn’t going to read into it, or the fact the entire interaction left me feeling… off.

I was in a new place, surrounded by new faces.

Tomorrow, I’d be back home in New York, in my element, free from the haze of this town and its maddening inhabitants.