Ten Mountain Men's Baby (Love by Numbers 9)

“Oh, that’s convenient,” she said, pointing to the motel. “I booked here online. Let me just check-in, then we can get lunch.”

I looked at her then at the simple, economy roadside motel. “You booked a room here?”

“Why not?”

I shrugged. “I just assumed someone like you… I mean. You know. You’d want to stay at…”

“Someone like me? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean successful. You know?”

“No, I don’t know.”

“I mean, if I were rich, I’d stay in one of the nice resort hotels; that’s all I meant.”

She laughed. “And what makes you think I’m rich?”

“Well, you are, aren’t you?”

She looked at me sideways, didn’t answer, but continued to the motel’s manager's office.

“Hello, I’m Holly Nestor. I have a reservation.”

“You sure do, Mrs. Nestor.” The manager, a short, thin elderly man, glanced at me then back at Holly. “Says here you reserved for one. Shall I change that to two?”

Holly glanced at me then twisted her lips into a pensive frown. “I don’t know about that yet. Can we see about that later?”We ate at the first restaurant we came to—a small diner with greasy fried food and big portions. And it was perfect!

The waitress gave me a double glance, then raised her eyebrow suspiciously as she passed our table.

Holly leaned over to me and whispered, “Did you see that look the waitress gave you?”

“I did.” I smiled. “She’s got eyes on your man. Do you think you can take her?”

Holley settled back in her seat. This time, she was the one giving me a suspicious eye. “My man?”

I winked at her. “Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

She smiled. “I don’t even know your name.”

“My name’s—”

“Stop!” She put her hand up, opened her palm out. “Don’t spoil it.”

Now I looked at her with a suspicious eye. What exactly would I be spoiling? And how would her knowing my name spoil this mystery thing?

Holly perused the menu. “Well, since I’m so rich”—she glanced up at me— “as you claim that I am, I will spare no expense. I believe I will have a starter and a main dish.”

I took a look at the menu. “No caviar and champaign on this menu, I’m afraid.”

She put her arm to her forehead and threw her head back. “Goodness, it’s dreadful to think I’ve had to go a week without champaign and caviar. It’s a miracle I’ve survived such a cruel fate.”

I chuckled. “I’m sorry, it’s just that we don’t have people like you—people who do what you do, I mean—in my town in Massachusetts. I’m still adjusting.”

She put the menu down and leaned over the table again. “Just who do you think I am, exactly?”

It was a legitimate question. I had been doing a poor job of hiding the discomfort I felt, every now and again, around Holly. Sleeping in a tent together, checking in at a motel, now eating at a greasy diner, all that was fine by me, but I knew a wealthy—probably married—socialite was used to a different lifestyle. I knew she was just having “an adventure,” and I was nothing more than “the local culture.” Admittedly, I was an East Coast doctor in residency, but I was born in North Carolina—or Tennessee, no more than a day’s hike from here, either way. And ever since landing in Georgia, even before setting foot on the trail, I had felt more than ever that I was coming home, home to my simple rural American roots. That feeling stayed with me in the company of this gorgeous West Coast socialite and with it, also, a sense of inferiority or, dare I say, even shame.

I opened my mouth to utter an answer to her question and offer a—probably ineffectual—explanation for how I was feeling, but the waitress saved me the embarrassment and came over to us before I could speak.

“Good afternoon. Have y’all decided?” Again, she looked at me out of the corner of her eyes suspiciously.

“I’ll start with onion rings, then have the baked chicken with dumplings,” said Holly.

The waitress wrote down Holly’s order then looked back at me. “And what about you.” She wagged her pencil in the air in my direction. “I could’ve sworn you are somebody I know.”

I smiled and shook my head.

“No, you ain’t. But you sure look like him.”

“I’ll have the squash then the Carolina Chicken,” I said and handed her the menu.

“There aren’t ten of you, is there?” said the waitress.

“What?” I looked at Holly, and she was just as baffled as I was. Then I asked the waitress, “What do you mean?”

She chuckled and swatted her comment down with the menus. “We got these brothers who come round every so often. There’s nine of ‘em!” She raised her brow and looked at Holly then at me. “You look so much like them that I was wonderin’ if there weren’t ten of you. But I suppose not. Nine is enough, I’d say.”