Free Cinderella Search by Judy Griffith; Gill

floor, and he lolled sideways against the wing back of the chair.
    Sleeping! In the lounge! Now what was she supposed to do?
    One thing, obviously. Her duty as night clerk demanded she march over there, grab his shoulder, shake him hard and wake him up. Send him back up to his room. Guests weren’t supposed to sleep in the lounge, for Pete’s sake! Pete. Right. All she needed was for Pete Hoskins, the manager, to make one of his rare surprise inspections and find Steve sleeping down here with her on duty. Pete didn’t like her and would take any good excuse to get rid of her. She was lucky he’d never heard of the ceiling episode. Not that he’d have cared about the damage; Pete had, through managerial inaction, allowed the inn to deteriorate more in the two years of his tenure than all the absentee owners had throughout the years of her grandfather’s and father’s management. Sometimes, she thought it was almost willful neglect, as if he wanted to see the inn tumble into the ocean.
    Maybe it was time for them to let it go, to let Steve Jackson’s father come and kill it outright, rather than have to watch its slow and agonizing demise.
    What if she simply walked down into the lounge, woke him up and told him to take it, take the whole shebang, take the responsibility off her shoulders? Then, she’d be free. But … free of what? She nearly laughed. Not guilt, that was certain. No, she was in this now and would see it through to the end. Whatever that end might be.
    Lissa quickly moved toward Steve. Then she stood gazing at him. His eyes were closed as he breathed in the slow, steady rhythms of deep slumber.
    What in the world was he dreaming about, to produce a smile like that?
    She had to fight her stupid impulse to smooth that lock of hair off his forehead. Finally winning that battle, she suddenly lost another and picked up a hand crocheted afghan from the back of a sofa.
    Stepping closer, she paused, then stared. There was no longer any doubt whatsoever about the reason for his smile, or what had nudged the magazine off his lap. Cripes! She clenched her teeth, not knowing whether she was most annoyed with herself for being impressed, or him for being in that state while he dreamed of … whom?
    It sure wasn’t ghosts.
    She picked up the magazine and dropped it on the table, where it landed with an audible slap. He didn’t wake up, though his smile faded and a frown creased his forehead for an instant. Still annoyed with herself, and with him, she spread the afghan over his long frame.
    One of his big toes poked through between the imperfectly joined corners of four granny squares, making her smile. He murmured, smiled again, and cuddled the blanket up under his chin.
    It took all Lissa’s strength to back slowly away from him instead of tucking the covering more securely around his shoulders and fixing it so his toe didn’t stick out. How could such a large toe, with a blunt-cut nail and a callus on the side, look so vulnerable? And why did it bring a catch to her throat? She sat down on the sofa next to his chair and watched him sleep.
    She was still sitting there, listening to him breathe, aching to touch him, when she heard the distinctive squeak of the swinging doors from the dining room. She leapt to her feet and whirled around. There was Rosa, carrying a tray of rolls and pastries for early risers. Good grief! It was nearly five o’clock in the morning!
    In one leap, Lissa started back to her post at the front desk, but she wasn’t quick enough.
    “What’s this?” Rosa whispered, staring at Lissa, hovering between the lounge and the desk, and at Steve Jackson sleeping in a chair. “What’s he doing down here? I thought you told your dad you wouldn’t get involved with him.” She gave Lissa an arch grin. “I figured you’d change your mind.”
    “I didn’t change my mind!”
    “No, I don’t suppose you did.” Rosa set her tray on the reception desk. The mingled scents of cinnamon and