Chapter Eight

Jamie

“No, it’s not. You have another hour’s drive.”

My shoulders and heart dropped. My drive hadn’t been long, but I was more than ready to settle into somewhere with a floor and four walls. “Oh, okay. My GPS must’ve taken me to the wrong place.”

I ducked back into the driver’s seat when the older man at the door began to chuckle. “Jamie, I’m only kidding. Of course this is the Bearclaw Inn. Welcome, welcome.”

Pushing out a relieved breath, I chuckled. At least he had a sense of humor.

Wait, was this someone I was supposed to mate with or the owner?

I had nothing against age gap, but my wolf wasn’t thinking this man was anything other than a friend.

“You’re Franklin, I presume?”

He nodded, still laughing. “I am. Come on in. Bring your bags. Forgive me. Today has been such a good day.”

“Nothing to forgive. I had a great trip as well.”

Franklin led me inside. “That’s good. Shall I show you to your room? You arrived earlier than I thought you would. Are you much of a chef? I could use the help in the kitchen.”

“I’d love to help you cook, but I need a minute to freshen up first, if that’s all right?”

Franklin smiled, deepening the lines around his mouth and the tinier wrinkles at the corners of his blue eyes. “No problem at all. I planned quite the feast. Right this way. Up the stairs.”

I paused after the first flight of stairs at the landing overlooked by a stained glass window right out of a fantasy. “Franklin, this is gorgeous.”

He paused and looked over his shoulder. “It is lovely. One of my favorite parts of the house.”

Seth’s research indicated that Franklin was a widow, and so I minded my manners and didn’t ask, no matter how eager I was to know.

“It’s stunning.”

“Up here to your right is your room.”

When we reached the top of the stairs, I saw two doors. One to the right and the other to the left. My stomach did a flop. Was the other person already here? Were they waiting downstairs. I didn’t see any other vehicles in the parking lot, but if they flew here, they would’ve gotten a ride.

“The other guest hasn’t arrived.” Franklin chuckled as he turned the knob.

We walked inside and while I didn’t know what to expect, I didn’t anticipate the room calling me to sleep there forever with a view right out of a painting. A few rolling hills, the perfect sunset.

Damn. I couldn’t imagine the other person having this beautiful an overlook.

Then again, people didn’t really come to stay here for the view.

“I’ll be right down,” I said once he gave me the tour. I had a queen bed and an en suite. The bed was covered with a colorful quilt with more folded on the chest at the foot and tucked onto the seat of the rocking chair.

Too bad this place was invitation only. If it was open for reservations, Franklin would make a killing.

Perhaps he did this for the love of…love.

Once I took a quick shower and changed into some jeans and a light sweater, I made my way downstairs, following my nose to the kitchen.

“Put me to work,” I said, going right to the sink to wash my hands despite the shower.

“How are you with chopping?” the older man asked. Bear shifter, if my nose was correct.

“I’m an excellent sous chef.” I rolled up my sleeves and grabbed a large wooden cutting board. It had the name of the inn burned into the corner with a design that mirrored the outside of Franklin’s home.

Franklin brought over an array of vegetables and said to cut them however I wanted. They were for roasting and would go nicely with the turkey he’d had in the oven all day.

“It’s a little early for Thanksgiving,” I said, snickering.

“I wonder why people only make turkey for Thanksgiving. It’s a lovely meal. Perfect for an autumn supper with company. Same with ham. It’s not just for Christmas and Easter.”

“You know, you’re right. And there are tons of leftovers.”

Franklin stopped kneading his bread dough, sourdough judging by the tangy scent. “I like you. And I’m making turkey and dumplings tomorrow night. The best soup. No arguments.”

“Wasn’t going to.”

Franklin and I worked side by side for hours. The afternoon turned into evening and, once everything was finished, Franklin crossed his arms over his chest and sighed. “Well, I suppose the other guest is late. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Let’s dig in. Hopefully he makes it.”

“Do you sometimes have no-shows?” I asked, grabbing the already sliced bread and bringing it to the set table.

Gods, this place was a comforting country dream.

“How about a bit of music? When I’m alone, I play some tunes in the background.” He had not, I noticed, answered my question, but I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer anyway.

“Sounds good.”

We ate together, sharing a lovely conversation about all kinds of things. He had me tell him more about my career as a barista. He wanted me to teach him how to make those hearts in the top of a cappuccino even though they weren’t trendy anymore.

He made me laugh. I expected a prim-and-proper eating style from him but instead, he grabbed two large pieces of sourdough from the middle of the loaf and proceeded to make a turkey breast, roasted veggie, and red-pepper jelly sandwich fit for a king.

I had to mimic him. The damned thing looked delicious.

His gaze drifted to the window over and over. “Well, I’m grabbing the blackberry cobbler. You in?”

“Of course.”

We’d made it halfway through large servings of cobber à la mode and cups of steaming dark-roast coffee when a pair of headlights sent shards of light through the front window.

“I knew he would show,” Franklin said. “They always show.”