Page 6 of The Heartbreak Hotel

Five

When I park at the address from Nate’s text—a business park on the other side of the lake—there’s a Bernese mountain dog blocking the front door.

It’s got to be at least a hundred and twenty pounds, with more hair than an entire sorority pledge class.

There’s a felted pink lily tied to its collar—giant, floppy petals and spindly orange stamen.

The dog’s owner shuffles out after it, shouting a thank-you through the door behind her.

She promptly loses her rein on the dog, who bounds toward me with all the limb control of a puppy.

I shriek when it gets to me—not because I don’t like dogs, but because I’m wearing my one good blazer—and it barks heartily in response, like we’re playing.

“Stop it!” I say, hopping backward in my heels. The sun is high and hot; I can feel myself starting to sweat as the dog hops right after me, salivating profusely.

“I’m so sorry!” The woman scrambles after the leash, finally pulling her dog away from me. There’s a glistening ribbon of slobber on my pencil skirt. “Mabel is so friendly, but so enthusiastic.”

“It’s okay,” I say. Mabel looks up at me balefully. “I love dogs, I just—” I gesture at my outfit. “I’m not dressed to play.”

“Of course,” she says. She’s in running shorts and sneakers, a faded Estes Park Turkey Trot T-shirt.

They did it at Lake Estes last year—a fogged-breath, early winter morning that Nate and I spent with coffee in bed while half the town pounded the cracked pavement around the lake.

“I’m sorry. She gets so excited when she sees Dr.Rhodes. ”

I stare at her for a second, then at the door. Henry Rhodes, DVM is right there on the glass in crisp vinyl letters. He’s a vet ? I’m in a matching skirt and blazer, carrying a briefcase. I brought printouts . Shit.

“Bye, Mabel.” I pat her wide head and hustle into the building, where a woman in braids—Rita, I presume—sits behind a desk in the small waiting room. There are heartworm prevention posters on the walls.

“Hi,” I say, approaching the desk with a confidence I don’t feel. “I’m—”

“Louisa.” Rita taps at something on her computer and gives me a perfunctory smile. “I’ll take you back.”

I swallow. I feel like she’s walking me to detention as she motions me into an exam room. There’s a vet school diploma framed on the wall, along with a pastel portrait of an incredibly disgruntled-looking cat. It smells like Clorox wipes.

“He’ll be right in,” Rita says before shutting the door.

I sit in the plastic chair with my briefcase in my lap, unsure what to do with myself.

Should I get the printouts? I open the clasp on my bag and pull out the stack of papers inside: local comps, recipes, even a mock listing I wrote at one in the morning.

When I spread them on the exam table and step back they look absolutely ridiculous, and I’m in the middle of shoving them back into my bag when the door creaks open.

“Louisa,” Henry says. His voice is soft and husky: the exact voice you’d want soothing your dog when they’re afraid. “How can I help you?”

I feel my lips part. Henry fills the room like overhead light: nowhere, then everywhere at once.

He can’t be older than thirty-five, dark hair just silvering at his temples.

A white coat hangs crisply from the cut of his broad shoulders, his name stitched over the heart.

There’s the ghost of a beard along his jaw and faint circles under his blue eyes.

“You—” I don’t know where my sentence is going, and it comes out as, “—know who I am?”

He blinks at me. “You live in my house—of course I know who you are.”

I think what I meant was, You recognize me? Because there’s no way this man and I have ever laid eyes on each other. I’d remember.

“Is there a problem with the house?”

“No,” I say. “I just wanted to—” I root around in my briefcase and pull out a check, the bulk of my savings, and thrust it at him over the exam table.

He takes it, glancing at my scribbled handwriting before looking back up at me. “You didn’t need to come in for this. Nate usually just mails it.”

I take a deep breath. “It’s not only that. I have a—proposal for you.”

One dark eyebrow lifts. “A proposal.”

I nod, and Henry stares at me for another beat before setting the check on the exam table. He adjusts his slacks and sits on the stool waiting behind him. Laces his fingers together between his thighs. “All right.”

I clear my throat and slide one piece of paper across the table at him: a photo of the house with Majestic Mountain Getaway splashed over it in the most elegant word art I could find on short notice. A couple strands of dog hair have floated across it, and I wipe them hastily away.

“Imagine,” I say, and Henry’s eyes flick up from the photo to meet mine. “Your beautiful home, the short-term rental destination of Estes Park, Colorado.”

Henry doesn’t look keen on imagining. When he tips back on the stool, his lips press into a line.

I slide another paper toward him. “Five individual guest bedrooms, beautifully appointed.” And another. “Homemade breakfast. Curated recommendations from a local. Meticulous maid service.”

“Who’s the meticulous maid?”

“Me,” I say, and now both of Henry’s eyebrows rise. They’re good eyebrows: dark and severe. “And I’d cook breakfast, too. And manage everything, every detail, and pass all of the profit along to you. With five rooms, we could easily bring in double what you’re currently asking in rent.”

He studies me. At some point while I was speaking, he crossed his arms over his chest. “And Nate?”

I raise my chin. “Nate’s not in the picture anymore.”

Henry’s face doesn’t change. His eyes only cut back and forth across mine, like he’s weighing this—or deciding what it means.

I think he’ll probably do the polite thing and tell me he’s sorry to hear it, but instead he says, “Is he transferring the lease to you, then? We’ll need to sort it out in writing. ”

I can feel it start to unfurl in me: fear. It seeps up from the floor of my belly, and I press one hand to my blouse, as if I could trap it there. Henry tracks the movement before looking back up at me.

“That’s the thing,” I say. “I want to run the house as a bed-and-breakfast instead of taking over the lease.”

“What’s in that for you?”

I swallow. It does nothing to push down the rising tide—the feeling that I’m drowning in myself. He’s going to say no; I can already tell. And I’ll be out of a home, out of a relationship, out of a future. “You’d let me live there for free.”

There’s a long silence. Henry’s arms are still crossed. He says finally, “Ah.”

“I know it’s a lot to ask,” I say, and a muscle tics in his jaw. “But I do think it makes sense, financially. For you.”

“And you.” Something about his gaze feels punitive, like he’s caught me in a lie.

My eyes start to burn, and I will myself to keep it together.

I think of Goldie, who’s always been irritated by my propensity for tears, the way it makes people take you less seriously .

There’s no space for my heartbreak in this room.

But then Henry says, “I’m sorry, but no,” and immediately goes blurry in front of me. “You can’t run a vacation rental without the right permits, and I’m not interested in strangers cycling through my home, and—” He breaks off, and I wipe quickly at my face. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” I say thickly. “Sorry, I must be allergic to—cats, or something.” When I gesture at the portrait on his wall, he doesn’t look away from me.

“I can easily transfer the lease from Nate to you,” Henry says. His voice is even, but when I look back at him his face has gone the slightest bit pink—right along the ridges of his cheekbones. “There’s no need to go to all this trouble.”

I think of Mei, when I called her before driving over here, the pep talk she gave me as I stood in front of the mirror. You go in there like the badass, empathetic, beautiful businesswoman that you are and make him see the genius of your plan. I draw a long, slow breath and blink my eyes clear.

“I can’t afford it,” I tell Henry. He holds my gaze.

“Without Nate. I’m looking for work as a therapist, and even then, I won’t be able to afford it.

” Henry rolls his stool sideways to open a cupboard above the sink.

I’m humiliated when he pulls out a spool of paper towels and extends it toward me.

“I love your house,” I tell him, taking the towels.

I rip one off and dab it under my eyes, hoping my mascara hasn’t turned me into a rabid raccoon.

“It’s my home. And I really, really don’t want to leave it. ”

Henry watches me as I carefully fold the towel and drop it into a small metal trash can.

When he still hasn’t said anything, I find myself carrying on just to fill the silence.

“It’s the first place that’s ever felt like home to me.

The attic office, and the garden, and the window in the upstairs bedroom that overlooks the street—where sometimes I can see Custard the St. Bernard in Bill and Martina’s yard.

” Henry’s face is all sharp lines: the cut of his mouth, the rigid set of his eyebrows.

But I see the quickest flicker of something—sympathy, or surprise.

Something soft in his eyes, there and then gone.

I cling to it like a buoy. “It’s my favorite place in the world.

And if I could share it with other people, instead of having to leave it, I mean—” I hesitate, drawing a steadying breath.

“I’ll take such good care of it. I promise. ”

Henry’s quiet for a long, slow minute. His eyes are shocking, white-ringed blue, like lake ice in the sun.

“I have a friend in city hall,” he says finally. He seems surprised at the sound of his own voice, and when he shifts on the stool he looks distinctly off-kilter, like he’s baffled by himself. “Who might be able to help with the permits.”

I grin, such an intense slice of a smile that it makes my cheeks ache straightaway.

“ Thank you,” I say, a rush of words that propels me toward him across the exam table.

When my hand lands on his forearm, squeezing, I feel the muscle jump under his sleeve.

“I can’t tell you how much this means to me.

” His eyes flick up to mine, startled, and I let go. “Seriously. Thank you.”

“Let’s try it for six months,” Henry says, something stilted about his speech—like he can’t quite believe he’s agreeing to this. He clears his throat and sits up straighter on the stool. “Until March? And if it’s not working, that’s it.”

“That’s it,” I echo, nearly breathless. “Thank you.”

Henry slides my rent check back across the exam table toward me, angling it through the maze of my printouts. “We’ll let September be month one.”

It’s a gift I don’t deserve. When I meet Henry’s eyes his jaw is tensed, his eyebrows knit together, his face still flushed.

He looks like I’ve confused him so entirely, like maybe he needs to lie down.

I have the indecent urge to tip forward and smooth my thumb between his eyebrows, erase the worry from his face.

It’s okay . Instead, I lift the check and press it to my chest like something precious.

“Thank you,” I say quietly. “You can trust me.”

Henry swallows. His voice comes as quietly as my own. “I hope so.”