Chapter 27

Carys

Walking up to the back entrance of the hotel, carrying a basket full of individually wrapped macarons, I smile at Jules when he gets the door for me.

“Thanks, Jules,” I tell him, offering him a kiss to his cheek.

“You can pay me in cookies,” he demands, closing the door behind me. “Also, the new computers are the shit and have you seen our website?”

I smile, setting the basket down on the front desk and handing him a cookie. One. If I don’t ration them to him, he’ll eat the whole damn batch, and I need enough to put in the rooms before check-in.

Glancing over at the guestbook, I see we only have three vacancies, one being the room we’re currently remodeling due to excess water leakage in the bathroom. The infamous room 201.

“I know, right? It’s so fancy and pretty,” I agree, placing the extra macarons, all bright blue and happy looking, on the table by the water.

“Fancy is right.”

“Thanks for that hook-up, by the way. Your friend saved me hundreds of dollars.” Jules’ friend from Club Rev just so happens to be getting his degree in graphic design and has an incredible talent for building websites. He helped me renew the domain name, thankfully acquiring thebluebayou.com. The wooden doors and hanging baskets, a perfect portrayal of our street here in the French Quarter, is everything I had dreamed and more. If someone searching for a hotel sees that and doesn’t want to stay here, then they were never our kind of guests to begin with. I’ve decided that I’m okay with the antiquities. I’m going to monopolize on what we do have to offer and not worry about keeping up with the Joneses, or the Hotel Monteleones.

Jules shrugs. “No biggie. I owe him. He owes me. We all get paid.”

The last line comes out dripping with insinuation and I laugh.

“Well, be sure to pass along my gratitude. Also, tell him I’ll email him as soon as I’m ready to add the link for reservations. I just want to make sure our new computers and software are up to the task.”

We both go about doing things around the lobby. Jules checks on our guests. His hospitality skills are one of his best qualities. I refill the water and put the rest of the macarons in my office. Out of sight, out of mind. CeCe recently started selling them in Neutral Grounds, so I’ve been staying up late a few nights a week, making extras to sell. My little side hustle has turned out to be quite profitable. A little exhausting, but profitable.

But, I can’t complain. Business is picking up as the summer rolls on. Our remodeling is going well and we’re close to having everything complete. The website is updated. Facebook is now being maintained and managed by Jules. I’m not sure I completely trust him on that front, but I’m happy to delegate. He’s also started an Instagram account for the hotel.

For once, I feel like I truly have a grip on the business side of the Bayou. After the scare with the taxes, I stayed up for almost twenty-four hours straight, going through every stitch of paper and balancing every ledger. I didn’t want to leave room for any more surprises.

“If you don’t need me for anything else, I gotta run,” Jules says, peeking into the office where I’m currently going through the daily mail and filing it away in its appropriate file.

I smile up at him. “Nope, I’ve got it covered. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Jules blows me a kiss and then disappears. I hear the bell on the door chime with his departure and then a few minutes later, it chimes again.

“Welcome to the Blue Bayou,” I call out, finishing up my filing and then stepping into the lobby to greet my guest.

A man in a three-piece suit is standing just inside the door, gazing around the large open lobby, taking it all in with a whistle. “Quite the place you’ve got here.” His words come out in what seems to be surprise, but also approval.

“Can I help you?” I ask, walking up to the computer on the front desk and wiggling the mouse to wake up the check-in screen. “Are you looking for a room? We’ve got—”

“No,” he says, cutting me off mid-sentence. “I’m not here for a room.”

It’s then I realize that his eyes are familiar, something I’ve seen before.

Up close.

And personal.

My mouth goes dry as I wait for him to say something else, hoping my intuition is wrong...hoping those blue eyes are a coincidence. Swallowing, I wait.

He walks closer to the desk, his eyes on me, and he cocks his head. “Miss Matthews?”

“Yes,” I confirm, forcing my tone to be firm and steady, despite the nerves building in my stomach. Where are George and Mary? I need back-up. I want someone else here who’s on my side, because even though there is just the two of us, I feel outnumbered.

“I’m Spencer Kensington,” he says, cutting straight to the chase. “I believe you met my son, Maverick.”

“I did.” I nod my head once, my heart squeezing at the mention of Maverick’s name, especially coming from his father. I had hoped my suspicions about Maverick were false. I hoped I had jumped to conclusions, and that at some point, I’d be able to forgive him for not telling me the truth. However, standing here now, face-to-face with his father, I feel completely...well, sad. Disappointed. Heartbroken all over again, but I don’t let him see that.

Mr. Kensington barks out a sharp laugh as he smooths down his tie. “I sent him here to do business, not...” Pausing, he waves his hand in my direction, a mixture of what I can only assume are disgust and annoyance on his face. “Not fall in love or whatever he was doing.”

Love?

Did he say...

“Mr. Kensington,” I begin, not knowing what his purpose is for coming here, but wanting to make one thing clear. “I’m not selling the Blue Bayou. If that’s what you sent Maverick here to do, it was a failed mission from the start. That will never happen. No offer would ever be good enough. This is my home, my business...my family. I’m not going anywhere, and neither is this hotel.”

My chest is heaving when I finish my spiel, but I feel ten feet tall. It feels good to say those things out loud and to take charge. This is mine. I own this place. No one can take that away from me.

I’m Carys Matthews, hear me roar.

“Huh,” he says, his demeanor placid as he unbuttons his jacket and adjusts the waistband of his pants. Smoothing his tie once more, which must be what he does when he’s trying to stay calm, he continues. “I must say, you’re a lot tougher than I thought you’d be. I can see where Maverick would’ve been swayed. He’s weak...always giving in too soon, never sticking around long enough for the kill.”

Those words make my blood instantly boil. Even though I’m not exactly sure who Maverick is, I know one thing for sure: he is not weak. Not once in our time together did I ever associate that description with Maverick, not even when I thought he’d lied to me. I’m starting to think I made a mistake. I don’t know how, but I feel it in my bones.

“He’s not weak,” I counter, gripping the edge of the counter for support. “He’s actually one of the strongest people I know. Strength is not measured by how many kills you make, it’s measured in how many lives you save.” That last statement is something I just read last night in the journal Maverick left behind, his grandfather’s journal. I haven’t taken the time to read much of it, partly because I still miss Maverick so bad it hurts and when I open the journal I’m reminded of him, but also because I just haven’t had the time. Since we started remodeling the hotel and getting ready for the grand re-opening, I’ve met myself coming and going, only stopping to lay my head down on my pillow for a few hours.

“You sound like someone else I know,” Spencer mutters under his breath, rolling his eyes as he places his hands on the desk in front of me. “Listen, I’m going to cut to the chase. I know you’re behind on taxes. I also know you were left this hotel due to a death in the family, which I’m sure was a huge inconvenience to someone your age. You should be going to college and having fun, not running some outdated hotel.”

I bristle with those words. “It’s not outdated,” I growl. “It’s antique and it has character. And if you don’t like it, leave.” My words are menacing and stern. I don’t even know where that came from, some deep hidden, badass part of myself. I like it. I also like the look of shock on Spencer Kensington’s face. “And as for my taxes, they’re none of your concern, but I’ll have you know, they’re current. I’m current.”

He stands there for a moment, looking me over, searching for a crack, but I don’t give him a chance to find one. “Please leave, Mr. Kensington, and please pass on to whoever is interested in my hotel, I’m not selling.”

Without another word, I give him my best smile and turn around, walking back into my office and leaving him standing at the counter. He can see himself out, letting the door hit him where the good Lord split him.

Eventually, the bell chimes and the door shuts, albeit a smidge forcefully, but I can’t help the smile on my face, feeling like David who just defeated Goliath. I’m not toting around a severed head, but I do feel like I earned a badge of some sort, because damn, that felt good.

Something inside me shifts as I try to reconcile that vile man being the father of Maverick. The morning he left, I told him he was just like his father, but I lied. Now that I’ve met them both, I know for a fact they’re nothing alike. I still don’t know what to make of the notes I found in Maverick’s room or everything that happened, but one thing I know for sure: Maverick is not his father.

Later that evening, when the hotel is quiet and all of our guests are checked-in and turned-down for the night, I pull out the old, worn journal and flip through a few more of the pages, finding the one I stopped on the last time I opened it.

At the top of the page, in handwriting that conveys age and wisdom, come the following words:

There’s a lid for every pot. My mama told me that when I was dating your grandmother. She said “sometimes, we think we’ve found the right lid, and it’s a close fit, but it won’t keep the steam in or the cold out, and it won’t produce the best end result.” She also said that sometimes we lose the lid, but it’ll turn up again in the most unexpected place.

I thought Maverick might be mine.

I smile as I read the words and notice my hand is covering my chest, right over my heart, like I’m trying to hold something in there. His words ring true, because I believe that too. I believe we all have a lid out there somewhere and it’s our perfect fit.

There’s so much wisdom in this book, I wonder, not for the first time, why he left it for me. I know it means a lot to him, so why would he part with it? Thumbing through it, I go to the back. I’m guilty of often reading the end of a book first. I can’t help it. Sometimes, I just need to know how it ends. What was Maverick’s grandfather’s last entry? What were his parting words?

As the pages are turning, I stop when I notice a change in the handwriting.

I know this handwriting.

For a moment, I’m fixated on the letters and the freshness of the ink. Whereas the earlier words were worn and the pages often smudged from excessive use, these are relatively clean. I close the journal for a minute, taking a deep breath as I close my eyes and try to get my heart and mind under control, before opening it back up and continuing to read:

May 21

I found the most interesting place today...stumbled right into the door and into the most beautiful, hot mess.

I’m gonna stay here...for as long as I can get by with. After that, we’ll see.

Lesson learned today: do something out of the ordinary.

My heart beats faster seeing Maverick’s words on the paper and knowing they’re about me. Checking the date, I know it’s the first day he stayed at the Bayou.

I’ll remember that day for the rest of my life.

It changed me.

He changed me.

Unable to stop, I continue to read, devouring the pages line by line. They’re unlike the rest of the journal. These pages are filled with daily observations and Maverick’s notes on how he was applying his grandfather’s wisdom to his life. Almost like an answer to a question. The older Maverick giving the younger Maverick a challenge and the younger saying: challenge accepted.

May 23

I kissed Carys tonight, or rather, she kissed me. And I’d be happy if she was the last girl I ever kiss.

Lesson learned today: let her lead, because you’ll be pleasantly surprised with the outcome.

May 25

I’ve been asked to do something today that goes against everything in me. My father wants me to pursue the Blue Bayou for a client who is interested in purchasing the block of buildings the Bayou sits on. I won’t do it. I don’t care what happens to me, but I know I’ll do everything to protect her.

Lesson learned today: if you know who you are, you’ll know what to do.

I’m holding my breath. I started a few entries up and I’ve been unable to release it the further I read, the further I delve into Maverick’s thoughts and mind, memories of what he’s describing flooding my mind. My body responds to the reminder of our first kiss. I feel the warmth spread from my heart to my stomach to lower regions as I read about his recollection of our time together.

Can this be real?

Can I allow myself to believe the words on the page?

I don’t know. I don’t know if I can. I’ve felt the invisible wall raise around my heart over the last few weeks, like armor, protecting myself from memories and desires. I want Maverick. I want to believe him. I want to call him and tell him that I forgive him, but I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if it’s too late or if he still wants me.

June 1

Is love at first sight real? I don’t know the answer to that, but I know Carys Matthews is real and she was meant for me...she was meant for me to find...she was meant to be in my life. I know this because I feel it every time I’m with her. My body literally sparks to life when she’s near. My heart feels fuller. My steps lighter. The uncertainty I felt when I got here still lingers, but it also feels inconsequential, because she’s here.

Lesson learned today: be open to possibilities, even the far-stretched ones.