Take that, Mother Nature.
She was crouching in front of the weathered mulch at the base of a small willow, frowning at a tidy circle of crocuses that had the absolute nerve to even think about poking their little purple heads out of the dirt, when the loud, rumbling sound of a motorcycle vibrated through the warm, morning air.
She looked up in time to see a big, black, dust-covered Harley slow and swing into the narrow drive that led up the hill to her inn. The guy straddling the noisy monster was wearing a thick black leather jacket, jeans with what looked like black leather chaps over them, heavy gloves, heavier looking boots, and a black helmet that looked as dusty as the bike.
“Stealth biker,” Kirby murmured as she straightened to a stand. She could only assume he was either lost, or…well, she didn’t know any other reason why he’d be idling in her driveway. When he didn’t turn around at the leveled-out gravel lot area at the top and head back down the hill, she walked over to see what was up. Maybe he was looking for work. Which, good luck with that. The area wasn’t an economic boomtown in the best of times, and while the excitement over the coming ski hoards had been palpable in terms of expanding the local workforce, that excitement had waned rapidly in the face of the relentless, unseasonably warm weather.
“So, I hate to disappoint you,” she murmured under her breath, “but I’m definitely not hiring.”
As she drew closer, he turned off the bike, settled the weight on the kickstand, and then threw his leg over the back and straightened. He looked…well, the word “powerful” came to mind. Maybe it was all the black leather, but he was a big man, easily over six feet, with or without the heavy road boots, broad shouldered, and just very…imposing. He slid off his gloves and laid them across the seat; then he turned as he unbuckled his helmet. Affording her a lovely view of a mighty fine backside. She decided right then and there she was a big fan of whatever those chap things were he was wearing. Damn.
Then he turned back, helmet off, and she forgot all about his amazing ass. She was too busy noticing the way his thick, dark curls, unshaven, hard-looking jaw, and lethal black sunglasses jacked up the intensity of his overall outlaw appearance. Her steps faltered, partly because he looked dangerous, and partly because, well…any woman with a pulse would probably have stumbled at least a step or two. Half of her wished there was a county sheriff close by, just in case…and the other half wished she could afford to pay this guy to tackle the list of odd jobs that were slowly piling up. Starting, of course, with the tasks that would require him to work with his shirt off. As often as possible. Warm weather might as well come in handy for something, after all.
She noted the bike had a Nevada license plate. Interesting. A bit longer than a day trip from Vermont. But given the amount of dust and dirt that had accumulated on the sleek machine, and on him she noted, it wouldn’t have surprised her if that’s how long he’d been on the road. So…not a local looking for work.
“Can I help you?”
He slung his helmet on the back bar of the bike. “You have any rooms available?”
His voice was deep, a little rough. He sounded more than a little road-weary. Or maybe he always had that kind of laconic drawl. Whatever the case, it only enhanced the whole road warrior vibe he had going on. He did things to her body just standing there that she hadn’t felt in…clearly far longer than she wanted to think about. “You want a room?”
In retrospect, she realized how comical her honest surprise must have seemed. His smile was slow, but brief, more a quirk of the lips. Which were also kind of chiseled and perfect. She really needed to stop staring. Anytime now.
“You do rent them out, right?” For all his pulse-pounding, over-the-top sex appeal, he was actually fairly soft-spoken. If gravel could be soft. In fact, now that she was close up, she thought her early suspicions might be right. He didn’t just sound road-weary, he looked downright exhausted. She couldn’t see his eyes, but the lines bracketing his mouth, the flexing and tensing of his jaw, and just the way he stood there, shoulders hunched a little, all but shouted extreme fatigue.
He nodded at the carved wood sign, painted periwinkle blue and leaf green, and planted in front of the house. Under the name, PENNYDASH INN, it read: PROPRIETOR: KIRBY FARRELL. “Is that you?”
“I am. I mean, yes, that’s me. I’m sorry, you just caught me by surprise.”
His lips curved again, a bit wryly. “You not in the habit of folks wanting to stay here?”
She forced herself to snap out of the hormone fog that was clearly only affecting her—no shock there, as she had at least a dozen years on the guy—and smiled as she swept her arm to encompass the view of the very green looking Green Mountains. “Not exactly the vacation destination for the discerning skiing enthusiast this winter.”
“Ah. My lucky day, then.” That last part was said with a particularly dry note as he pulled out his wallet. “I don’t ski.”
Kirby smiled at that and quickly shifted gears the rest of the way into innkeeper mode. “Why don’t we go inside, get you registered?”
“My bike okay here?”
Her smile widened as she continued to find her footing. He wasn’t exactly the sort of guest she’d visualized hosting as she’d been slaving away all last summer and fall. In fact every single one of her instincts, both as a woman and as a business owner, were screaming that this guy was not what he appeared to be—or maybe too much of exactly what he appeared to be. But, given the current state of her bank account, she was in no position to get all picky-choosy about what kind of boarders she’d prefer to have under her roof.
“It would appear you have the run of the lot,” she said, then immediately could have kicked herself. Right, Kirby, just announce to the down-on-his-luck-looking, lone-wolf biker dude that there are no other guests in the inn. Not that he would have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure that one out, but still.
He opened one of the side compartments on the back of the bike and lifted out a black gear bag, which he slung over his shoulder. Even that unconscious motion was sexy as hell. Seriously, get a damn grip. She was coming off like the stupid cliché of single, sex-starved, middle-aged innkeeper, when she was anything but that. Okay, so she was exactly that. But she definitely wouldn’t have used the term “starved.” Sex wasn’t everything. At least, for the past two years and right up until five minutes ago she’d had herself firmly convinced of that.
She started up the cobblestone walkway, leading to the wide wooden steps, smiling as she always did when seeing the front of her newly restored place. It was probably hokey to some, and she seriously doubted this particular guest would even notice, much less appreciate it, but she loved the lacey gingerbread pattern that scalloped along the edge of the wraparound porch overhang. It made the place look lively and inviting to her. Very ski chalet. She’d painted the house in a flat, Wedgwood blue to offset the cream and pale green–painted adornment, so it wasn’t too over-the-top cutesy, but it looked like a happy house. And that had been her goal. Both for herself and her guests.
She heard his heavy boots on the steps behind her, and a little tingle shot straight down her spine. Okay, so maybe she was a teeny tiny bit hungry. But she was also a well-educated, savvy businesswoman and any second now she was going to start acting like it.
She’d already decided to fax a copy of his driver’s license over to Thad at the sheriff’s office and get him to check the guy out. Smart business even if her hormones were acting stupid…and she was admittedly curious to know more if she could. Her new guest didn’t exactly strike her as the chatty sort.
She stepped behind the small counter she’d had designed and built under the stairs where they made their turn up to the second-floor landing.