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 that?”

“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.”

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.

She’d been trying to avoid this for so long—the familiarity that reminded her of everything that she’d lost. But now that she was here, she didn’t have the sadness she expected. If anything, she had the sense of connecting with a part of herself that had been dormant for a long time.

Too long?

Damn it. See, this was why she hadn’t wanted to come here. Jordan and small towns had unfinished business, and she wasn’t at all liking that she was already feeling the pull.

“You okay?” Simon asked, doing a double take when he saw her expression.

She forced a smile. “Totally. Just trotting down memory lane.”

“You know,” he mused, “considering we’re on actual Main Street right now, I wouldn’t be surprised if this town did have a Memory Lane. I feel like I’m on a movie set.”

Jordan pulled the rental in front of their destination, and Simon gave an extra-dramatic gasp at the firehouse. “You see what I mean? Movie set. That firehouse belongs on Leave It to Beaver.”

“That’s a TV show.”

“Whatever, Carpenter. It looks exactly like it should, am I right?”

He wasn’t wrong. Jordan took in the square brick building, noting the shiny red truck, the American flag waving gently in the breeze. The only thing missing to make it officially like a 1950s postcard was a Dalmatian.

“Buff eye candy, here I come,” Simon said, climbing out of the car.

And Luke Elliott, here I come.

Neither of them got their wish.

While there was no shortage of good-looking men at the firehouse, none seemed inclined to take his shirt off.

And none of them was Luke Elliott.

“You sure I can’t help you with something, Miss . . .?”

“Carpenter,” Jordan said.

“I’m Simon Nash,” Simon butted in, even though he’d already introduced himself. Twice.

Jordan nearly rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t blame Simon for his crush. The firefighter in front of them held plenty of appeal. Square jaw, friendly smile, and the way his broad shoulders stretched the navy LHFD T-shirt across a sculpted chest didn’t hurt either.

Not that it mattered for Jordan or Simon. Ryan Henderson wore a simple gold wedding band.

“You know when Luke will be back?” she asked.

The man’s eyes narrowed just slightly, hands finding his hips as he studied her. “What’d you say you wanted him for?”

I didn’t.

Still, the man’s caution improved her impression of him. It signaled that he was a friend first, gossip second.

“I’d prefer to discuss my business with Mr. Elliott directly,” she said. “I can wait until he returns.”

Ryan gave her another once-over, his eyes lingering on the high heels that she already knew were out of place in a small town where cowboy boots and tennis shoes were more the norm.

He finally relented. “Might be a while,” he said. “He’s got a thing down at the school. Fire safety day.”

“Elementary school? High school?”

Ryan scratched his cheek and looked thoughtfully at both of them. “Luke’s a friend. Been a friend since we were kids. Can’t say I’ve ever been in the habit of selling him out to two fancy city slickers who won’t say what they want.”

“City slickers? Really?” Simon muttered under his breath.

“I get it,” Jordan said, meeting Ryan’s gaze. “I’m from a small town myself. We protect our own. But I’m going to find Luke Elliott with or without your help.”

Simon shot her a quick glance, probably surprised by her admission. He’d just found out about her small-town roots today, and here she was letting a stranger in on the secret. It had to be done, though. Small-town residents tended to instinctively distrust “city folk.” If she wanted to break in, she needed to establish herself as one of them, just for a while.

Her ploy didn’t work.

Ryan’s smile was wide and just slightly unfriendly. “It’ll have to be without my help, then.”

Fine.

Jordan smiled pleasantly at Ryan, even as she turned on her heel to head back to the rental. “No problem!”

She’d find Luke on her own. It couldn’t be hard to locate a school in a town this tiny.

Jordan was halfway to the car when she heard Simon open his big mouth. “We’re from CBC. We’re hoping for your boy to be the star of a new show.”

Jordan spun around. “Simon!”

Ryan gave an incredulous laugh, then stilled as he looked at the two of them again. “Wait, seriously?”

Jordan shrugged in confirmation. He’d find out eventually.

“Well, hell,” he muttered. “What kind of show?”

Simon glanced at Jordan expectantly, and she sighed. “We want Mr. Elliott to consider being a candidate on a show called Jilted. Basically, The Bachelor but for runaway grooms.”

“Runaway grooms,” Ryan repeated skeptically.

“Three failed weddings? I’d say he qualifies,” she said, daring him to argue with the facts.

Ryan’s arms were crossed, his expression intent, and she braced herself for a scathing get the hell out of my town lecture.

Instead, he surprised her with a wide and genuine smile. “Oh man, this I’ve got to see.”

She blinked. “You’ll tell us where he is?”

Ryan smiled wider. “Better. I’ll take you there myself.”