Page 5 of Traitor
Chapter Two
Ford
The willowy blondeisn’t as collected as her fancy clothes and designer purse make her seem. Her pretty bronzed complexion goes stark white, then red as her deep blue eyes land on me. I say nothing in response to her reaction. All I want is to get her checked in and settled, then go back to my room with a beer and a baseball game on low.
“I’m sorry,” she says when she catches her breath. She bites her lower lip, the tip of her pink tongue darting out to wet it. “I didn’t hear you coming.”
Why is it they always have to chitchat? This is exactly why I have Nell on the front desk. I have neither the time nor the patience to deal with the customer part of “customer service.” “Need a room?”
Her hands tremble as she sets her Michael Kors bag on the counter with a clunk and digs through it. Silver rings glitter on slim, nimble fingers, flashing like lightning bugs. Her trim, unpainted nails have multi-colored specks, a rainbow of color. Mildly amused, I wonder if it’s another one of those weird nail trends women seem to like that I sure as hell don’t understand.
“Yes, please,” she says with a glance under her hooded eyes. “For the week? With the possibility of extending.”
“Weekly rate is five hundred.”
She doesn’t bat an eye as she pulls out a credit card. “That’ll be fine, thank you.”
I grunt in response as I consult the computer. “I’ve got a double on the second floor with a view of the lake available.”
“That’s perfect.”
I don’t happen to think so. The last thing I need is a pretty blonde with secrets in her eyes busting up in my peace and quiet, but I keep my mouth shut, take her card, and book the room.
She doesn’t make idle chatter, which I grudgingly appreciate. Instead, she seems content to study the lobby, especially the windows. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t proud of the place. It wasn’t a firefight in Afghanistan, but it kept my hands—and my mind—busy, which was more than I could say for a lot of the men I served with. Definitely more than I deserved.
I pass over the key cards to her room and a brochure with local attractions, lodge amenities, and a map. “Your room is up the staircase to the right. Number 202. We’re zero on the phone if you have any trouble.”
“Thank you,” she says and hefts her purse over her shoulder. “Have a good night Mr. …I’m sorry I forgot your name.”
I clear my throat. Another reason why I liked to stay in the back. It was a surefire way to keep from being on the receiving end of the curiosity that inevitably came from giving my name. “Ford, Ford Collier.”
“Mr. Collier.” Her bright smile disarms me. Either she’s a real good actress or she had to have been hiding under a rock for the past couple years. I give a mental shrug. “Just Ford.”
“Ford,” she repeats softly. “I’m Peyton Rhodes. It’s nice to meet you.”
I take her offered hand and shake, frowning at the blue splotch of paint on her wrist. The single note of disarray contradicts her fancy purse and glittering adornments. It makes me frown. So it wasn’t a fashion choice. I don’t want to know where she got it from, but I do. “You, too,” I say gruffly.
With another smile in my direction, she disappears up the staircase to her room and even though I tell myself not to, I stare at her ass the whole way up.
Somehow reminding myself that women like her are nothing but trouble doesn’t do a damn thing to get me to look away.
The next morning,before I’ve even had my first cup of coffee—if you could call it that—Peyton comes downstairs and, with a small, polite smile in my direction, heads to the bar where we set out a little breakfast with coffee that doesn’t taste like the sludge I make. I try not to look at her, but my eyes have other ideas. The tight black pants she somehow slicked herself into showcase stunner legs even a monk like me can appreciate.
“Good morning,” she says.
I nod to her and busy myself on the computer, but I keep watch on her out of the corner of my eye. After she fills a cup and adds a shit ton of cream and sugar, she takes it with her and goes over to one of the lounge chairs in front of the window. I took her more for the excursions and Instagram type, but she stays there, sipping her coffee and watching the world outside the window come to life as the sun rises over ancient oaks.
The crooning voice of George Strait filters in from the office, causing me to scowl. Nell, a sixty-five-year-old Windy Point native, listens to the local country radio station every day without fail. And each day I threaten to fire her because of it.
So far, she hasn’t taken me seriously.
“How many times do I have to tell you to turn that shit off?” I ask when she pushes through the swinging door from the back office.
Nell, a Paula Dean twin if there ever was one, smiles silkily. Her glossy silver-white hair doesn’t have a strand out of place. Much like the woman herself, she’s as neat as a pin and militant about detail. My drill sergeant would have loved her.
“Well, honey, you can ask until we’re both stone-cold in our graves, but the answer is still going to be no.”
“I really ought to fire you.”