Blue Moon Bride. Renee Roszel
assuming anybody as sun-dried as Mona must specialize in nature scenes.
Mona shifted her eyes from her oatmeal to Hannah. “I paint thoughts, musings, inklings,” she said in that gravelly basso voice. She closed her eyes, as though listening to a lovely strain of music. “On those providential days when my muse is in ascension, I paint raw, unadulterated adoration.”
“Yes,” Joan said. “Yes, she does. Most exquisitely.”
That was as clear as mud. “Oh…” Hannah wanted to ask more, like what in the world an “inkling” looked like, or what it took to get a muse into ascension, but she recalled her vow to be mute. So far, she hadn’t done very well. She took up her fork. Apparently Mona got a special nonfat breakfast, since the rest of their plates were heaped with pancakes drenched in butter and syrup, a slab of ham on the side. Oh, well. She could diet when she got home. It wouldn’t be hard, considering she was nearly broke. “Breakfast looks good,” she said, then remembered her vow of muteness. Don’t be so hard on yourself, she told herself inwardly. A compliment to the cook is no great crime.
“Why, thank you, dear.”
Hannah took a bite, deciding if she had food in her mouth she would be less likely to babble. Why did Roth Jerric have to smell so nice? And why did his elbow have to brush her arm? Every time it did, she experienced a troubling flutter in her chest.
“I serve pancakes a lot. They’re a special favorite of most guests. As are my egg dishes. Especially my spicy Eggs à la Peterson, sunny-side up.” When she said “up” she threw her hands over her head for emphasis. The move startled Hannah, already so nervous she jumped. Why did it have to be just as she lifted her coffee mug? The resulting lurch sloshed coffee on Roth’s pancakes.
“Oh…shoot!” That’s all she needed, to have to face the guy and apologize for ruining his breakfast. She did it as quickly and with as little eye contact as possible. “Sorry.” She plunked her mug down and hefted her plate toward him. “Have mine. I’m not hungry.”
“No need,” he said.
“I insist.” She scooted her chair back so abruptly it nearly overturned. Roth caught it just in time. She could feel his gaze, but she kept her focus on Joan. “I’m not feeling well.”
“Goodness.” Joan pushed awkwardly up to stand. “You’re sick?”
“No.” Hannah circled to the back of her chair. “Just—just…” She held up a halting hand. “Sit down, Joan. I—it’s a headache. I’ll take an aspirin and lie down for a bit. I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?” The proprietress looked worried. “I hope I didn’t bring it on with all my complaining.”
Joan reminded Hannah of her favorite grandmother, so willing to sacrifice for others. She managed a smile of encouragement. “You’re not responsible at all. Besides, I can’t recall you doing any complaining. Please, eat your breakfast.”
“Well…” Joan lowered herself to her chair, clearly reluctant.
Hannah belatedly noticed Roth had stood up. What was he doing? She glanced at him, at his face, his eyes, breaking her vow to smithereens. He not only smelled intoxicating but he looked it, in that torso-hugging, sky-blue knit shirt and those formfitting jeans. She’d never seen him in jeans before, not even on casual Fridays. He looked scrumptious—and very serious. She wondered what went on behind that frown. Did he doubt her headache story? “Sit down,” she said, upset with herself for her smashed vow, and worse, thinking of him as scrumptious. “Eat my pancakes.”
He said nothing, merely watched her. She was positive he felt her alleged headache was open to question. So what if he was right? It was none of his business if she wanted to lie about having a headache. It’s a free country, Mr. Jerric, she threw out silently. Believe me or don’t believe me. I couldn’t care less. “Excuse me, everybody.” She dashed out of the dining room, into the foyer and up the stairs.
An hour later, Hannah considered leaving her room. Maybe it was safe. Surely by now breakfast was over and Roth was busy doing whatever he came to the inn to do—fishing, boating, making other people feel inferior. She pushed off the bed and walked to her balcony door, overlooking a quiet cove some one hundred feet down a gentle, tree-lined slope. She couldn’t hear the lapping of the water from this distance, but somewhere out on the lake she heard the drone of an approaching motorboat.
Through branches she thought she could see a sailboat. Yes, there it was, its white sail billowing in the wind. She opened the multipaned door, feeling a little better, and took a deep breath of fresh air. The day would be warm. June had been un-seasonably cool, but July in Oklahoma could see temperatures soaring to three digits. Soon the weather would be too hot for open windows and enjoying fresh breezes off the lake.
A knock at her door exploded her positive mood. She recognized the force of that knock. It had to be Roth Jerric. Closing her eyes, she took in another breath of fresh, country air. “What now?”
“How are you feeling?”
She wanted to tell him the truth, that she felt depressed, and a great deal of her depression had to do with him. “If you mean the headache, I’m fine.”
“Can I come in?”
She didn’t want a one-on-one with him, especially not in her bedroom, so she decided to lie. “I’m not decent.” She winced, the off-the-cuff statement echoing the bathroom disaster. Couldn’t she come up with something else? Like the truth, I’ve been crying, a direct result of how insecure your low opinion of me has made me.
She’d had great respect and admiration for Roth when she worked at Jerric Oil. Knowing he, in particular, thought her mediocre had become a huge roadblock to her self-confidence. Running head-on into the man at the Blue Moon Inn had been far from therapeutic.
“Could we possibly do this on the same side of the door?” he shouted.
“What do you want?”
“To speak to you.”
“Must you?”
A full half minute of silence ticked by, then, “I’ll only take a second. Please, open the door.”
She felt foolish and a little childish. Did strong, independent women cower behind locked doors? Not on your life! She straightened her shoulders. She was no coward. It was one thing to be upset, but quite another to wallow in self-pity. “Oh—just a second.”
She hurried to the old oak dresser, grabbed a tissue, dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose. Stuffing the tissue in her jeans pocket, she pulled her face powder from the top drawer and patted the puff across her nose and cheeks. “I’m slipping something on.” She closed the drawer and gave herself a once-over in the mirror. Her red nose camouflaged by face powder, she looked composed. She ran her fingers through her curls, fluffing them. Roth was only an ex-boss, just a man. Why get all caught up in his opinion? “Coming.”
She opened the door, determined to remain formal and solemn. Neither he nor his estimation of her were important. Unfortunately, seeing him sent a rush of ambivalence through her. He was quite a sight standing there all tall, intensely serious and excruciatingly handsome. His features carried a startling lack of information. A slight sideways movement of his jaw indicated impatience, perhaps. Or possibly some internal burden he carried that had nothing to do with her. Cheek muscles stood out, telegraphing the fact that he clenched his jaw. “Thanks,” he said, at last.
She shored up her indignation with the lift of her chin. “What is it?”
“Joan has your breakfast warming in the oven.”
“I told you to eat my breakfast since I ruined yours.”
“I ate my own. The coffee didn’t hurt it.”
She refused to feel guilty. He was a big boy. He made his own decisions. “Whatever.” She turned away and walked to her open balcony door. Up close he smelled too good. She needed the fortification