Free So Inn Love by Catherine Clark Page B

grabbed it on the first ring, no doubt to avoid my question. “Thank you for calling the Tides Inn, my name is Caroline, how may I assist you?” she said in a sugary-sweet tone.
    She had the perfect phony voice to be answering the phone. I would never have been able to match that, so she probably did deserve the front-desk job over me.
    What was Caroline so worried about? Zoe was seeing Brandon-with-a-motorcycle now, so it wasn’t as if Caroline had to look out for her best friend’s interests.
    Does Caroline have a crush on Hayden? Iwondered. Is that why she’s being so rude to me, and why she wants me to stay away from him? Is that why she’s spying on us?
    If that were true, maybe she felt like she deserved him, since she’d known him longer.
    Still, I couldn’t picture her and Hayden together. He seemed too loud and adventurous and fun, and she seemed too rigid and, well, unfun.
    But if she truly liked him, I could let her have him. I could wait until she got off the phone, and tell her not to worry, that Hayden was all hers and I’d keep my distance.
    Except I didn’t want to do that. So I walked out of the lobby onto the back porch, stretched my arms over my head, and took a deep, satisfying breath of the fresh salty air. I couldn’t wait to get back onto the beach.
    “Do you have to look so happy?”
    I turned and saw a man sitting in one of the wicker chairs, near the edge of the porch. He had his feet up on the railing and a computer on his lap. He looked like he was in his forties, with slightly graying black hair, longish sideburns, and wore a loose linen shirt and jeans.
    “I’m sorry?” I asked.
    “You look too unbearably happy. And must you breathe so loudly? You even breathe happily,” he commented.
    “I just really enjoy the way the air smells here.” Or, at least I did , I thought as I fanned the cigarette smoke away from my face. “What are those, clove cigarettes?” I asked.
    “No, they’re Turkish.”
    “Mm.” Cool-sounding, but still cancer-causing, I was guessing.
    I remembered Miss Crossley’s instructions on our first day. You don’t have to smoke with the guests, but you do have to offer them a light. Fortunately, this guy didn’t need one.
    “It’s impossible to concentrate around here, with so much coming and going,” he said. “And nobody told me this place would be full of children.”
    I was going to point out that he shouldn’t sit on the entrance facing the beach, where everyone had to walk past, if he wanted privacy. But that seemed obvious—not to mention a little obnoxious. “I don’t know, it’s still kind of early in the season. I don’t think there are that many kids. What are you trying to concentrate on?” I asked.
    “Writing,” he said.
    “Oh. Oh!” I hadn’t recognized him at first, but of course—it was the writer Caroline had mentioned at breakfast.
    “And it’s only June, and this is the sixth place I’ve stayed already this summer, and I haven’t been able to write a word at any of them. Though that’s not your fault. I mean, it is, but it isn’t.”
    I laughed. “How is it my fault—like, at all?”
    “It isn’t. I was just grasping at straws. Speaking of straws, here we are now.” He nodded at Daunte, who was carrying a tray toward us.
    Daunte smiled at me on his way past, then set a tall glass on the table and had the guest sign the bill before heading back inside.
    He grimaced as he drank it. “Horrible, awful stuff.”
    “What is it exactly?” I asked.
    “Quintuple espresso, on ice, with a splash of grenadine and a lemon wedge.”
    The description alone was enough to turn my stomach. “And it’s bad?” I asked. “Should I get you another one? Here—let me do that. I’ll run to the kitchen,” I offered.
    “No, it’s not the way it’s made. I mean, it’s supposed to taste ghastly. And it does, so I can’t complain to the bartender.”
    “Barista,” I said.
    “Whatever,” he said. “As long as it works,