A Brand New Ending (Page 47)

Regret tinged her voice. “Me, too. But we were too young to know what that really meant.”

“And now?”

Was that a flash of hope in her eyes or a trick of the light?

“And now maybe things can be different.”

They smiled at each other. His heart bloomed. She was finally admitting there was a chance.

He’d take the small opening and chip away until he created a giant door he could walk right through, back into her life.

Ophelia knew the moment her guests arrived the next day that they’d be trouble.

The duo had matching annoyed expressions. Perfect hair and makeup. Designer luggage. Three-inch-heeled platform Michael Kors boots that were definitely not waterproof. The dark-haired one wore a turtleneck that ended right below her boobs. The blonde had bubblegum-pink lips that could have made her the mascot for Botox. They seemed about twenty-five, with an air of snobby entitlement.

Yeah, this was going to be fun.

Not.

Smothering a groan, she pasted on her smile. “Welcome to the Robin’s Nest B & B. How was your trip?”

“Awful,” the brunette whined. “The roads suck, and there was, like, no decent restaurant to stop at along the way. Thank God we’re only here for two days, or I’d die.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that. I can make you some coffee or tea and some snacks while you relax and get unpacked. Let’s get you registered. I’ll show you the rooms and bring up your luggage.”

“We requested a private bath,” the blonde threw out. “We’re not sharing with strangers.”

“Of course. It’s all set.” She went to the writing desk and pulled up the information on the computer. “Devon Marshall and Margaret Alistair, correct?”

“I prefer Margo.” She tossed her golden tresses and pursed those lips in distaste. “I also have a strict list of preferences for breakfast I’ll need you to accommodate.”

She kept her smile pinned on. “Yes, I’d be happy to tailor the menu to your needs. Can you confirm your address, phone, etc.?”

They got through the check-in process, and she grabbed two keys. She gave them a quick tour of the inn, then led them up the stairs to the rooms. “I’ve placed you in the Garden and Imperial suites. Both have private baths, a sitting area, king-size beds, and a fireplace. There’s instructions on how to work the fire, but I’m happy to help you if you need it.”

The girls toured the rooms with matching judgy gazes as if ready to pounce the moment they didn’t like something.

Ophelia delved into her spiel, which included everything they both needed to know about the town and the inn’s facilities.

“We don’t like to share breakfast with strangers,” Devon said.

“We only have two other guests right now, but I’m happy to bring up room service.”

“Good. We’d like mimosas and fresh fruit—but no pineapple and no apples. Fresh-squeezed orange juice with the mimosas—not the cheap juice in the cartons. Absolutely no carbs. I brought a recipe for oatmeal-banana pancakes we’d like you to make. And we like our coffee with organic Stevia and prefer a dark blend with no bitterness.”

Her lip quirked. Guess Margo had no idea oats contained carbs. “Not a problem.”

“Is there a gym?”

“No, I’m sorry. No gym.”

Devon gasped. “I assumed there was a place to work out! Every facility has a gym!”

She grabbed at the fraying strings of her patience. “I’m sorry, but we are clear on the reservation confirmation and on the website that there’s no gym—and that we don’t provide dinner.”

Margo moaned. “What are we going to do? What if we gain weight?”

“We have a wonderful yoga studio in town that holds classes all day tomorrow. I’d be happy to give them a call and register you.”

Devon nodded. “Yes, definitely. I almost fainted.”

Margo gave a dramatic sigh of relief.

Ophelia tried to choke back the ball of disgust lodged in her throat. There were always a few guests who made her want to quit the inn and be a file clerk in a big-ass library with no mandate to talk to anyone. But her mother always said the hardest guests to serve brought the most opportunity for growth.

Guess she’d be getting that a lot this week.

“Very good. Let me get your luggage and set up your tea and snacks.”

“I only like Barry’s tea,” Margo said.

“Not a problem.” She clicked the door closed and massaged her temples. These next two days were going to be hell, but then she had a nice stretch of isolation until the next group was booked.

She could do this.

She delivered the suitcases and headed to the kitchen to steep some Barry’s tea and put out no-carb, low-fat snacks. She reminded herself to run out and grab some champagne. New Year’s had cleaned her out, and rarely did guests request bubbly unless it was an anniversary.

Footsteps made her look up. “Can I make some coffee?”

“Already put on a fresh pot. Don’t lie. You smelled it, didn’t you?”

Kyle rubbed his head and gave her an adorably sheepish look. Sexy scruff hugged his jaw, emphasizing those carved lips she already missed kissing.

“Yeah, I’ve climbed into the saggy middle of my story. I’d rather scrub toilets than keep writing.” He looked hopeful. “Any toilets for me to scrub?”

She laughed, grabbing him a mug and pouring the brew. “Nope. The middle was always the worst for you. You have to stop editing yourself—that’s where your block always happens.”

“I know! I can’t seem to let it go. I fix every few words, think about shit, and then delete the words I put down. I literally spent two hours on my laptop and nothing got written.”

“Vomit the words, remember? Think morning pages. Unconscious creative writing. No muse or inner voice telling you anything. Then you can fix it later. It’s like hump day—you have to barrel through.”

He took the coffee and stared at her with a bit of hero worship. “Yes, this has happened before. You remembered.”

She laughed. “You’ve been writing since we were twelve years old. Every single time you’d bitch and whine and declare it was all over once you hit the middle. No story has beaten you yet, and I highly doubt this will be the one that does.”

“You’re right.” A determined gleam lit up his eyes. “I got this. Why did I forget I’ve gone through this before?”

“It’s like childbirth, I think. Women say no matter how excruciating the pain, the baby is so amazing they have selective memory and decide it wasn’t so bad. Then they get pregnant again.”

“You’re a brilliant woman, Ophelia.”

She laughed again and waved her hand in the air. “Yes, I am. Now get the hell out of my kitchen and go write.”

“I will. I’m going to—”

“Excuse me! Excuse me, Ophelia? I need some help, please.” Devon appeared from the dining room and headed toward them.

Unbelievable.

The kitchen was in the back of the house, so a guest had to walk through a bunch of rooms to get there. This was her private area.

Guess Devon had ignored the big sign at the bottom of the stairs that said to ring the bell for any service.

“Yes, Devon? What can I do for you? I’m just getting ready to bring up your tea.”