Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 42461 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 212(@200wpm)___ 170(@250wpm)___ 142(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 42461 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 212(@200wpm)___ 170(@250wpm)___ 142(@300wpm)
The storefronts tucked beneath canopies and smothered with holiday decorations were already closed, including the modest building with a sign in front that read Deena’s Diner.
Damn.
Royal was getting hungry, he’d only had a pack of cashews since his lunch at a buffet spot off I95. He’d sat in ignorance at the table for twenty minutes waiting for the waitress to take his appetizer order…at a buffet. Royal had never felt like more of an asshole, which was why he’d left a one hundred dollar tip.
Now, he was again, hunting for a ritzy diner or even an all-night bodega for a chicken Caesar wrap.
It never dawned on him to research the town his parents used to visit every year around this time. They’d always invite him, but of course he was always too busy. He hadn’t even taken five minutes to glance through the pictures they sent to his phone, email, and both his secretaries.
He pulled over with a resigned sigh.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. What have I fuckin done?
Royal was so far out of his depth he was barely treading water. He was considered a smart man but at the moment he felt like a jackass. He didn’t know how he was going to survive in such a simple environment.
But the thought of going back to his lonely penthouse, back to the cold, hollow hustle of his life, made his head start to pound, and his chest tighten.
That was all the reminder he needed.
Royal opened his glove box and took out the bottle of Tylenol and swallowed two of them dry before he pulled out his phone and googled hotels near me.
One result came up that was less than a third of a mile away. The other four were over twenty-two miles distant.
Jesus.
Royal glanced up, and sure enough there was a rustic sign indicating the next turn was into the Cedar Pines Bed and Breakfast.
He pulled into the gravel lot, and it was so quiet that the crunching of rock and ice under his tires sounded too loud. He’d probably woken the guests.
Royal sat there for a long moment. He didn’t have a reservation, he hadn’t even called ahead.
Shit.
Well, if they were booked up, he supposed he had another thirty minutes to drive to find a different place to sleep. His throbbing head and exhaustion were praying Cedar Pines had something. He’d take a broom closet.
Mustering energy and nerve, he got out of the car and was surprised at the clean, crisp scent of the air. It was cold but it was a welcome change from the toxic air of New York’s exhaust-filled streets.
Royal buttoned his peacoat over his cashmere turtleneck his assistant had purchased from whatever fashion magazine she liked. The shoes he wore would be the death of him unless he found something durable and with deeper tread.
He pushed open the cottage-style door—the brass handle freezing his bare palm—and was grateful for the immediate rush of heat.
The fragrance of freshly cut wood, pine, and something sweet like apple cinnamon made a feeling of nostalgia wash over him. When he was a boy, his mother’s kitchen had always smelled like that.
The lobby was decorated like an elderly couple’s living room, with thick carpeting and a wide sofa sitting between two, plush La-Z-Boy recliners. Discarded local newspapers littered the polished mahogany oval table in the center.
The woman behind the counter glanced up as he entered, removed her reading glasses, and quickly put her book down.
“Evening!” She greeted him with a big smile.
His frown at her politeness was instinctive, but he hurried and attempted to return her expression, but probably ended up looking like he was holding in gas.
She was in her sixties, maybe seventies, but there was something about her that made her appear ageless. She wore a pastel-pink cardigan over her simple white blouse, and a modest strand of pearls around her neck. Her shiny silver hair was pinned up in a bun with loose tendrils kissing her round face.
“Um.” Royal cleared his throat.
“Well, look at you.” She chuckled, in a warm, not teasing way. “Let me guess, you’re not from around here.”
Royal shook his head. No, he didn’t belong here.
“We get a lot of travelers at the grand opening of the winter festival, but that’s not for another few weeks. I’m Mrs. Pearl. What brings you to our little neck of the woods?”
Royal was stuck. He was used to bored, unaccommodating receptionists and a generic greeting.
“I uh…I’m Royal. I live…I mean lived, in Manhattan. I’m from Manhattan.” He glanced back at the door, every instinct telling him to hurry—he had emails piling up by the second, not to mention twenty or more phone calls to return in the next hour, and he was wasting time.
“Sweetheart, are you all right?”
Mrs. Pearl even sounded like his mother. If his mom still sounded like that. He wasn’t sure.