Ready to Run (I Do, I Don't 1)

For now, Jordan thought. By the time she seduced Luke Elliott with the idea of hot women, household fame, and a fat paycheck, the town would need to update its sign to 2,313.

Chapter 2

“Just the one night, cutie pies?”

Simon leaned on the counter and smiled at the middle-aged blond woman behind the front desk of the motel. “Let’s say we end up needing to stay a few extra nights. Will that be a problem?”

“Gosh, no,” the woman said with a smile. “We’re almost never booked to capacity, except during the county fair.” She leaned forward too. “We’ve the best fair for miles around; everyone knows it. It’s in just a couple weeks if you want to stay.”

Yeah, that’s a no.

Still, Jordan would give the motel credit for being adorable. She’d assumed motel would mean a tiny, rundown building meant to put a roof over the head of the occasional passerby, with maybe a vending machine and not much more.

Instead, Maeve’s Motel had a decidedly homey, bed-and-breakfast feel to it. A quaint little house, painted pale pink, right down to the picket fence in the yard. The lobby area smelled like freshly baked cookies because there were freshly baked cookies, alongside a crystal pitcher of lemonade.

Still, no matter how charmed she found herself, Jordan had no plans on staying longer than she had to.

She slid her corporate credit card across the counter. “Just the one night. Two rooms please.”

The woman’s smile didn’t dim. “No problem, sweetie. I just love your hair, by the way; how’d you get it to do that beachy look? Mine just goes straight to frizz unless I wrestle it into submission with a flatiron.”

Jordan resisted the urge to touch her shoulder-length blond hair self-consciously. “Oh, it’s this…stuff. A saltwater spray. I can get you the name.”

It was also embarrassingly expensive for what was probably literally salt and water, but Jordan didn’t mention that part.

“I’d love that. I’ll be here all day and tomorrow morning, but if you come by tomorrow afternoon, just leave a note; tell April to give it to Vicky. That’s me!”

Jordan smiled. “Will do.”

The other woman hummed happily as she slowly typed their information into the ancient-looking computer system, her long pink fingernails clacking the keyboard one key at a time.

Vicky was in her early sixties, pleasantly plump, with a wide face and even wider smile. Today was apparently one of the days where she’d beat her blond bob into submission, because it swished happily against her chin as she grooved to the music in her head.

“Okay, here we are,” Vicky said, sliding two plastic key cards across the counter. “Rooms nine and ten, right across the hall from each other on the second floor.”

“Perfect,” Simon said. “Which one’s bigger? That’ll be mine.”

“Same size. But nine has a view of Main Street, which can be a bit noisy, so if you want quiet, pick ten.”

“I could go for a bit of quiet,” Simon said, reaching for the key to 10.

“I could get you a room on the same side,” Vicky told Jordan. “If you want quiet too?”

“I’ll take my chances with Main Street. I’m guessing it’ll be quieter than where I’m from.”

“Oh, where’s t

hat?”

“New York,” Jordan answered, deliberately interpreting the question as where she was from now, not where she was from originally.

Years of dodging her past had taught her that the more confident your tone, the less likely people were to listen too closely for what you were hiding.

Vicky gasped in delight. “No. Really? New York City?”

Jordan smiled and took the key card.

“No wonder you’re so pretty and fancy,” Vicky said. “Although I always thought it was just a stereotype that New Yorkers wore all black.”