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

Jordan glanced down at the black halter top, skinny jeans, and basic black pumps. Black purse. Black suitcase. Black bangles at her wrist.

Not all black, but close.

“Not me, though, Vicky,” Simon was saying, holding his arms to the sides. He was the very definition of flamboyant pretty boy. Tall and lean, short blond hair with just the right amount of product, white jeans, purple shirt, and shoes that cost more than Jordan’s entire wardrobe.

“No, not you,” Vicky said with a happy laugh as Simon spun in a slow circle. “I’ve never see a man wear lavender paisley before.”

The utter disbelief on Simon’s face had Jordan biting back a smile.

She touched his elbow before he could launch into a lecture about how paisley was in right now.

Jordan reached for the handle of her suitcase, then turned back to Vicky with her friendliest smile.

“Say, you wouldn’t happen to know where I could find Luke Elliott, would you?”

Vicky’s wide brown eyes blinked for a moment. “Well, gosh, what’s today—Monday? He should be down at the firehouse, I’d guess. Thursdays and Fridays are his days off.”

Simon scratched his cheek in bemusement. “Exactly how tiny is this place that everyone knows everyone else’s work schedule?”

Vicky laughed. “Welcome to small-town life, sweetheart. But I have a better sense than most. My husband owns Tucker’s Tavern, and I help out some nights. I know when I’m most likely to see Luke. And most everyone else,” she added with a wink.

Jordan pushed aside a stab of disappointment. A bar would have been the perfect place to make her initial pitch, but no way was she sticking around until his off-day on Thursday.

“Thanks for the help,” she said with a smile to Vicky, reaching once more for the suitcase.

“Anytime, doll. You know Luke?”

The question was unapologetically nosy, but Jordan didn’t take offense. She knew firsthand that in small towns like this one, there was no such thing as somebody else’s business. Everybody’s business was everybody else’s.

Still, she hadn’t spent the first eighteen years of her life in a tiny town for nothing. She knew precisely how to evade without ruffling feathers.

“Not yet,” Jordan said with a saucy wink at Vicky as she backed up. “But I plan to soon.”

Vicky’s brown eyes lit with friendly curiosity, but Jordan turned away before the older woman could pry further.

“I’ll bring the name of my hair stuff down in a bit,” Jordan called, wheeling her bag toward the staircase. No elevators in Maeve’s Motel.

“So what’s the plan?” Simon asked, coming up beside her and nudging her hand away from her suitcase, lifting both of their bags to trudge up the steps. The guy might be lean, but he was diligent about his daily workouts, and it showed.

“We take five, freshen up, and give you a chance to get your hormones all tamped down and tucked away.”

“Vicky’s a delight, but she’s not my type,” Simon whispered.

“We’re not sticking around here,” Jordan explained. “We’re about to storm a firehouse.”

Simon rested a hand across his chest. “Oh sweet Jesus, I think I might faint. Do you think I could talk one of them into wearing just the suspender things, no shirt?”

“You talk to whomever your loins want you to,” Jordan said, wheeling her bag toward Room 9. “I’ll only be talking to one elusive Luke Elliott.”

—

The rest of the town was every bit as adorable as the motel, like pure Americana perfectly cared for and tied up nice and tidy with a red, white, and blue bow.

Not that it was brand-new or glamorous, but, then, that was part of the charm. A handful of buildings that had seen better days, and there was no shiny new Starbucks, no fancy frozen-yogurt chain. But even the most tired of buildings were adorned with tidy potted petunias or friendly fuchsias dangling from hanging baskets and clinging to the last bits of summer. The lawns were mowed, the paint fresh, the streets free of litter. There was an American flag in every yard, a welcome mat on nearly every porch.

Everything about it was lovely and hit Jordan with a wave of homesickness so strong and unexpected that her eyes watered. It had been so long since she’d been in a town where drivers waved and smiled at other drivers instead of honking. A place where residents took simple pleasure in the process of getting somewhere, rather than focusing solely on the destination. A place where people cared enough about something other than themselves to give a curious smile to a newcomer.

Keaton, or at least what she remembered of her hometown, was a touch less picturesque, maybe a bit less postcard worthy. But the important stuff, the essence of the towns, was the same.