“Sometimes your Knight in your shining armor turns out to be a biker in dirty leathers.”
- Anonymous
Prologue
Jolie
“Don’t forget to clean the second-floor rooms today. I swear you don’t do anything around here.” This comes from my Aunt Lola. Why I’m still working at what was once my mother’s bed and breakfast, The Breezeway Inn, I have no idea. Except that this was her dream. She wanted this to place to be kept in the family, so here I am, still to this day. My mother’s sister somehow managed to finagle her way into the family fold shortly after her death less than five years ago and is still here. My father… good grief. That’s exactly the state he’s still in, completely oblivious. Constantly drowning himself in a bottle of liquor in his office allows him to do it quietly and out of sight. I’m just the idiot who sees this place as her mother’s last legacy, even when I should completely give up. But I hold on because besides my father and myself, this place was her whole life. Until one day, when I came home from school at the age of seventeen, The Breezeway was surrounded by ambulances and fire trucks. The bed and breakfast was also our home, in the back half of the three-story cathedral-like house. It sucked. One day, your mom is in the kitchen making breakfast, and that afternoon she was gone. A brain aneurysm at the young age of thirty-five years old stole her from me and my father.
“Yes, ma’am, Ursula,” I breathe the last word under my breath, so she won’t hear me. If my father were ever able to see through his rose-colored glasses, he’d see that there was a reason Aunt Lola was never around when Mom was alive.
“And stay away from that man in leather!” I roll my eyes at that. It’s kind of hard to stay away from him when the Inn only has eight bedrooms. Ursula sure doesn’t help, and as usual, Dad is in his office, a drink in his hand, staring at the picture above the fireplace of the three of us on the front porch. I was seventeen when that picture was taken. Little did I know it would be the last one we’d take as a family together.
“Did you hear me? I swear you’re deaf and mute half the time,” she grumbles from her place in the corner.
“How could I not?” I whisper to myself before saying, “Yes, Aunt Lola. Do you need anything else before I start on the third floor?” The man in leather she’s speaking of is one tall glass of water on a hot Louisiana day. He’s mysterious, quiet in his own way, bites on a toothpick in his mouth as if he’s quitting a bad habit and this is calming him down. It’s weird, though. He comes in wearing jeans, a dark T-shirt, and chaps. Sometimes, he’s wearing a leather jacket, sometimes, he’s not. How he does that in this heat, I don’t understand, but I’m not complaining because he’s easy on the eyes. Tall and lean, a swagger in his walk, eyes that are kept hidden beneath sunglasses—unless I’m taking a break and sneaking around to catch a glimpse of him without them on. His eyes are electric blue, so soft and light, they’re almost unreal. Short dirty blond hair and skin that’s been kissed by the sun.
“No, but don’t dillydally. The silver needs to be polished today, too.” Thankfully, my back is to her, so she doesn’t see me roll my eyes.
“Yes, Aunt Lola.” I grab my cleaning caddy and walk away before she keeps me here any longer. I’ve already visited with my dad this morning. He had a cup of coffee in one hand, a bottle beside him at the ready to more than likely pour into said mug. It sucks that he’s turned into this. My mother would be beating him with a flip-flop, a loaf of bread, or a spatula, much like she did me when I didn’t want to do something I was told to.
I’m deep in my own thoughts now that I’m outside, breathing in the fresh air, away from Cruella. Yes, I name my aunt every horrible character in a Disney movie. That’s how mad she makes me. Pretending to help but really just sucking my father dry and playing guilt trips on him. One day, he’ll wake up and smell the roses. Until then I’m stuck, and there’s no way I’ll allow The Breezeway Inn to die in bankruptcy.
“Whoa, there, sweetness,” the man from room 3B says. Apparently, I’m diving face first into a solid brick chest, not even smooth enough to attempt to drop my cleaning supplies to brace for impact.
“Shoot. I’m so sorry.” I attempt to step back, but his grip on my shoulders stops me.