He follows my directions, and within a few minutes, my battered pickup is pulling up in front of a stately old mansion, complete with gigantic white pillars, antique lanterns burning on either side of the doors, and a gold plate on the bricks proclaiming The Carriage House a place of historical interest.
Two live oak trees twine their gnarled branches together in front of the home-turned-hotel, blocking part of the second floor from view, but I’ve already seen enough to know Naomi must have dropped some serious cash on these rooms. I’ve never stayed in a hotel with pillars before, or with attendants who rush to open my truck door like I’m visiting royalty.
“Welcome to the Carriage House.” The man wearing an old-fashioned suit offers me a hand down to the ground. “May I help with your bags, miss?”
“Um, thanks.” I slide out without touching his hand—mostly because I’m not sure how to do it the right way—and grab my camo backpack from the floorboards. The man reaches to take it and I stammer, “I meant, no thanks. Sorry. I can carry it. It’s small. No big deal.”
“Of course, miss.” The man—Thomas, according to his shiny gold nametag—smiles in a way that makes me feel slightly less stupid. Like he gets that this is all a bit much, but it’s part of the job for him. “Do you have any other luggage you’ll need help with today?”
I shake my head, grateful when Mick appears beside me. He hands Thomas the keys to the truck and a ten-dollar bill, thanking him before taking my hand and leading me up the wide brick steps to the door.
I peek up at him as we walk, but if he feels self-conscious that we aren’t even half as well-dressed as the people who work here—let alone the other guests I see milling around—he doesn’t show it.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” I whisper as we step into the lobby, an elegant room filled with thick rugs, antique furniture, and lush potted plants and flowers.
The check-in desk is made of wood so polished it glows in the dim light. Across the room, floor-to-ceiling windows reveal a courtyard with a pool and over-stuffed outdoor cabana chairs that look fancier than my couch. My indoor couch. And I spent good money on that couch, determined to have one thing in my apartment that wasn’t purchased at a garage sale.
“This is it.” He squeezes my hand. “Don’t be nervous. Naomi always does this.”
“Spends half my monthly salary on hotel rooms?” I mutter, clinging to Mick’s arm as we get in line behind an older couple who reek of money.
The woman’s wedding ring is as big as the acorns my Uncle Tip used to hire me to pick up in his backyard. He paid me fifty cents per bucket, a salary I considered more than fair at age eight and the only way I was able to afford candy after school or the occasional trip to the movies. Mama never had enough left over for stuff like that. Sometimes we didn’t have enough for the gas bill, let alone candy.
“Naomi’s been rich too long,” Mick murmurs. “She forgets that normal people don’t need thousand thread count sheets to get a good night’s sleep.”
I sigh, my ribs tightening. “I’m not going to be able to pay her back, Mick. I mean, this is crazy, I can’t—”
“Don’t worry about it.” He steps forward as the older couple move to speak to the elegant, blond woman manning the desk. “Like I said, she doesn’t expect to be paid back.”
“But—”
“She a billionaire, Faith. Like lots of billions,” he says, making my jaw drop. “She could buy Bliss River if she wanted. She’s not going to miss a few hundred dollars.”
“You’re kidding me.” I blink, then blink again when he shakes his head. “B-but that’s crazy. She doesn’t seem like a billionaire. I mean she’s so nice. And normal. And she eats burritos from the food truck for lunch.”
He laughs. “Yeah, she’s grounded, but she’s also loaded. So, let’s just relax and enjoy the nice rooms she booked for us. We’ll send her a thank you note when we get home and I’ll get the marble countertop she ordered for Jake’s kitchen installed next week ahead of schedule and she’ll be totally happy.”
“Okay,” I agree, but I’m still feeling anxious and out of place when the older couple step away from the desk and the blonde with the aggressively white teeth turns her smile our way.
“Welcome to The Carriage House,” she says in a voice like crushed velvet. “I’m Clarice, how can I help you?”
“We have reservations, the last name’s Whitehouse.” Mick pulls out his wallet and hands over his I.D. “It should be two rooms, both for one night each.”
“Of course, Mr. Whitehouse. Let me pull up your reservation.” Clarice drops her attention to her monitor and types, her nails clicking on the keys. After a moment she pauses, her brows drawing together as she scans the screen. “Well, I have a reservation for you, Mr. Whitehouse, but I’m showing that it’s for one room for two nights.”