4. Four

4

FOUR

I don’t know what possessed me to agree to the ridiculous tour. All I kept seeing was Sam’s face when I punctured her hope for this project. I remembered having hope for projects at one time. Sure, it was years ago. It was when I lost that hope that I became a miserable son of a bitch, though.

I didn’t want that to happen to Sam for some reason.

So, I agreed to the tour. We would wander around Salem with a guide, smile at one another, and maybe some of her hope would rub off on me. I wasn’t actually opposed to it. I needed the hope. I’d become jaded over the past few years, and it made me intolerable … even to myself. It would take a lot of hope to seep into my cold dead heart.

I had too much to drink, which meant I woke up with a mild hangover. I hopped in the shower and tried to wash away the headache. Then, when that didn’t work, I popped four Advil and headed downstairs. It was still early enough for me to grab breakfast, which was all I was focused on … right up until I walked into the hotel restaurant and found Sam sitting at a table with a woman I found vaguely familiar.

I froze in place, confused, then exhaled heavily and started toward them when I realized exactly who Sam was sitting with. Daisy, the happy-go-lucky hotel worker who had gotten sick of my shit faster than anybody I’d ever met. She was Sam’s partner in crime for breakfast.

“Let me guess,” I said as I reached the table. “You’re our tour guide.”

“Miles sent you an email,” Sam said in a pointed tone as Daisy just stared at me. “Daisy is an expert on Salem. She’s going to teach us a lot.” Now she lowered her voice. “Can you not be a donkey?”

It was the second time she’d used the word to describe me and I couldn’t stop myself from looking over at her in dumbfounded disbelief. “Can you not say the word ‘dick’ or something?”

She rolled her eyes at the question. “I can say it. I choose not to.”

“And why not?”

“Because you’re a donkey.”

“You are a donkey,” Daisy readily agreed. She sipped her coffee as she regarded me. “I’m thinking maybe some of the donkey stuff is an act, though.”

“It’s not.” I plopped down in the chair across from them. “I’m a total … donkey.” It was weird saying the word, and yet once it was out, I was amused despite myself. It kind of fit. I was a donkey. I could live with that.

“I think it might be,” Daisy replied. “It doesn’t matter, though. If you’re a donkey—and I’m totally going to start using that word—then I’m going to treat you like a donkey. I don’t care who you think you are. You’re going to show some respect … or at least the bare minimum of manners.”

I liked her sassy attitude. She was pretty too. The huge diamond ring on her finger reminded me she was taken. Not that I was interested anyway. She wasn’t my type. She was too … settled. I didn’t even know if I had a type any longer. It definitely wasn’t Daisy, though.

It’s her, my inner voice crowed when my eyes briefly landed on Sam. She’s your type.

If I could’ve laughed without looking like a loon, I would have. Samantha Summers definitely was not my type. I needed a brooder. I mean … when I finally decided to settle down. I didn’t need someone who got hyped on a project simply because it was there. I needed someone who didn’t smile all the time.

As if to prove I was right, Sam offered up a small smile when she caught me staring at her, and it did nothing but make my stomach feel as if I were trapped on a roller coaster. That wasn’t a good thing. Not even a little bit.

“Listen, I agreed to be your tour guide because I believe this show is going to do good things for Salem,” Daisy volunteered. She motioned for one of the servers to come to the table. “Get him the Hunter Breakfast with bacon, a coffee, and an orange juice,” she said without waiting to ask if that’s what I wanted. “Make the eggs over-medium,” she continued. “Also, try to make it fast. We’re heading out on a tour, and I don’t have all day to deal with slow-moving actors and their hangovers.”

I couldn’t do anything but stare at her once she sent the server off. “How do you know I’ll even eat that?” I demanded. I had no idea what was in the Hunter Breakfast, but I honestly wasn’t picky when it came to breakfast foods. There was nothing I wouldn’t eat.

Well, except for avocado toast. I had no interest in avocado toast. That was just disgusting.

“You’re going to eat it because you need the fuel to burn off that hangover,” Daisy replied. “I ordered it because I’m not messing around with you. I’m not sure if your bad attitude is because you think it makes you look cool?—”

I snorted. “Yes, I’m perennially trapped in seventh grade,” I acknowledged.

“Or if it’s some deeply rooted trauma you’re dealing with,” Daisy continued as if she didn’t have a care in the world. “It honestly doesn’t matter to me. Until you pull your head out of your ass, I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing this because your little show is going to do good things for my town … and therefore my future husband. I also happen to like Sam. You’re a butthead, though.”

Now I did smile. “I thought I was a donkey.”

“You’re a lot of very bad words,” she said. “The thing is, I actually believe you can stop being the bad words. I just don’t know if you’re going to put in the effort.”

“Probably not,” I replied.

“Probably not,” she agreed on a sigh. Briefly, she shook her head, and then she returned to reality. “The goal is to get you guys photographed around Salem. That means I’m going to take you to the tourist traps. If you’re a good little boy, I’ll teach you some important things about Salem along the way. It will help you with the locals.”

“What makes you think I care about the locals?” I challenged.

“Because you’re not quite the donkey you pretend to be,” Daisy replied. “I’m not sure why you want people to believe you are, but deep down, you’re something else entirely.”

I darted a look at Sam and found her watching me with speculative eyes. “And what’s that?” I asked when I forced myself to focus on Daisy again.

“I haven’t decided yet,” she replied. “As soon as I figure it out, you’ll be the first to know.”

THE brEAKFAST AND JUICE KILLED THE bulk of my hangover, so when we left for our tour, I was feeling okay about life. Daisy kept giving me weird looks over her shoulder as we crossed the road, but I didn’t know what they meant. Therefore, I kept smiling in return. It was my smarmy smile, though, and she just kept rolling her eyes over and over again until I was worried she was going to sprain them.

“This is Salem Common,” she explained as she took us to the park next to the hotel. “It’s fairly empty now, but in two weeks there will be rides for kids and more food trucks. My favorite is the cider and doughnuts. I don’t actually like cider, but the warm doughnuts are a miracle.”

“I love warm doughnuts.” Sam’s face was somehow lit from inside. She was practically glowing under the bright sunlight. I had never in my entire life seen anybody as excited as her for a tour. If it was anybody else—somebody that I hadn’t already upset on multiple occasions—I would’ve been mocking her.

Instead, I forced myself not to be the jerk of all jerks. “I’m guessing this place is overflowing with people when the tourists start coming in.”

Daisy looked at me again. She had a very expressive face. I could tell she was trying to get a firm read on me— good luck with that, honey, because I can’t even get a firm read on myself —and she nodded in response. “From about the first week of September through the first week of November, this town is crawling with people. Some of them are locals—we get a lot of weekend visitors from Boston and the surrounding area—but most of them are tourists from different states. They come here for the witch experience.”

“So, as a tourist town, you guys make the bulk of your money in those two months,” Sam surmised.

“Kind of,” Daisy hedged. “That is our big moneymaker. We do okay in the summer, too, though because of our proximity to the water. We have a thriving fishing community, and the town makes a lot of money in the summer, too. Just … not as much.”

Daisy seemed to be debating what to say. “We have a rough patch here,” she said finally. “The December through April stretch can become a barren wasteland. It’s not pretty. That’s why we have to budget appropriately. A lot of places—the Hunter Hotel included—have to furlough our staff in the winter.”

Sam nodded in a way that made me wonder if she was a tourism expert in her spare time. “That makes sense. Does the hotel suffer?”

“We have found ways to offset some of the barren months,” Daisy replied. “I’m not actually the front desk worker. I was there yesterday because the woman who was on schedule had a doctor’s appointment—she’s pregnant with her first baby and nervous—but normally, I’m in the ballroom because that’s where we host our parties.”

“Halloween parties?” I assumed. I wanted to somehow prove that I wasn’t just an information vacuum to Sam. I could learn, and I wasn’t a complete and total idiot.

“We do Halloween parties for the two months before Halloween—and we do an absolutely huge Halloween bash that sells out in a single day every year—but we do other parties as well,” she replied. “We’re close enough to Boston that people like to host corporate parties here. People can drive if they want, but a lot of them get rooms for the night so they can have a good time.

“Our other big moneymaker is Sweet Sixteens,” she continued. “We’ve become sort of famous for those. Because of that, we manage to keep a more robust staff on than other places going into the winter. A lot of these places can’t afford that, though.”

“I didn’t even know people still had Sweet Sixteens,” I admitted. “I don’t think they do that in LA.”

Daisy snorted. “They do. I’m guessing that’s not your crowd, though.” She made a “come on” motion with her hand. “I’ll show you Essex Street next.”

“What is your crowd?” Sam asked out of nowhere.

I glanced at her, again noticing the way her skin appeared to glow. She’d gone with minimal makeup even though she knew Miles was arranging a photographer—one we were not supposed to stare at or acknowledge—and I liked that she wasn’t fussy when picking out a pair of comfortable shorts and a T-shirt. She might’ve been putting on an act with me, but she was still herself during the process.

“I don’t know that I have a crowd,” I replied. “I kind of stick to myself.”

“Perhaps you need a crowd.”

“Why would I need a crowd?”

“Because studies say that people who are lonely are meaner, and you’re mean.”

I made a sputtering sound that was half a laugh and half a snort. “I’m not all that mean,” I argued. “You just caught me on a bad day.” Why I felt the need to defend myself to her was beyond me.

“Okay.” She flashed a smile, but it wasn’t real. Her real smile had been on display in the park. This one was for my benefit … and I didn’t like it.

Rather than let the conversation devolve—which is what it likely would’ve done—Daisy snapped her fingers and pointed at the building across the road. “Oh, if you guys are looking for a good photo op at some point, wait until after dark. That’s the Salem Witch Museum. At night, they have lights that change the exterior to different colors. It will look really cool in photos.”

“How is the museum?” Sam asked. Her attention was on Daisy and away from me again, something I didn’t like.

Why the hell did that bother me? It was so weird.

“Actually, the museum itself sucks,” Daisy replied. “It’s not really a museum. They basically take you in a small auditorium, make you sit on stools that were designed for children and are vastly uncomfortable, and then you have to look up and hear the story of the witch trials related to you as a light moves between wax figure bays. Some of the wax figures don’t even have body parts that match up.”

I burst out laughing, convinced she was joking. When Daisy’s response was to raise an eyebrow, I was floored. “Are you kidding me right now?”

“I am not,” she replied. “My most fervent wish is that somebody would put me in charge of all the tourist draws for a month so I could get this town streamlined and running properly. Unfortunately, that is not an option.”

“Wow.” That was all I could say.

“The museum gift shop is to die for, though,” Daisy said to Sam. “If you want something to take home, you should definitely check out that place.”

“Oh, I’m going to check out every place,” Sam enthused. “I don’t care how corny it is. I want to see it all.”

“See.” Daisy beamed at her. “I knew you were my sort of person the second I met you.”

“What about me?” I asked her as we resumed our walk down the sidewalk. “Am I your sort of person?”

I thought for sure she would laugh and shake her head. Instead, Daisy graced me with another unreadable look. “I haven’t decided yet.”

Next up was Essex Street, and I forced myself to listen closely as Daisy gave us the rundown.

“So, as the foot traffic for fall picks up—and that happens earlier and earlier every year because getting in here in October takes nerves of steel—the weekends will see kiosks lining the street up and down.”

“Food trucks?” Sam asked hopefully. “I happen to love food trucks.”

“I do too,” I said before I realized I was going to comment.

Sam gave me a sharp look. “You do?”

“Why is that so surprising?”

“Because you strike me as the sort of guy who needs a hundred-dollar bottle of wine to go with his filet mignon.”

“I’m more of a burger and fries guy.”

Sam snickered. “Right.”

“I am.”

“Okay.” She went back to watching Daisy. “What sort of kiosks do they have?”

“It’s stuff like witch hats … and wands … and capes. I even got a crown last year. Jax likes it when I wear it to bed.”

“Nice.” Sam’s giggle sent warm shots of … something I couldn’t identify … right to my heart. “Is it a tiara?”

“Yes, with a unicorn horn.”

“That is so weird,” Sam said. “I like it, though.”

“Also, if you love food trucks, those will be all over the place too,” Daisy said. “My friend Lux and her husband Jesse run one of them—although she’s pregnant now so I’m guessing they’ll have workers take most of the shifts so she’s not on her feet constantly—and they make the absolute best food.” She offered up an exuberant chef’s kiss. “My favorite is the fried green tomato sandwich. Actually, when we’re done with our tour, I’ll take you to their restaurant so you can get a sample.”

“They own a restaurant too?” Sam looked thrilled at the prospect. “Do they have clam chowder? I love clam chowder. You can only get decent clam chowder on the East Coast, though. They butcher it on the West Coast because they try to make it healthy. Some things just can’t be made the healthy way.”

“They have clam chowder,” Daisy confirmed. “They also have an amazing lobster bisque.”

“Yum.” Sam rubbed her stomach. She actually rubbed it … and it didn’t look corny or out of place or anything. “Do you like clam chowder?”

It took me a moment to realize she was talking to me. “Yeah,” I said finally. “It’s good.” I found myself momentarily getting lost in Sam’s eyes. They were so sparkly and happy. Had I ever felt happiness like that? I didn’t think I had … and wasn’t that a humbling thought?

“We’ll finish the walk down Essex Street,” Daisy said. “Then I’ll take you over to the water stretch. You need to see it. Plus, it will make a great photo op.”

“For what?” I asked. “I haven’t even seen this photographer that Miles promised.”

Now the expression Daisy managed was odd. “Seriously?” She jabbed her finger toward the water feature across the street. When I looked, I realized there was a man standing there with a camera. He looked intent on what he was doing.

“Um … I didn’t even see him,” I admitted.

“He’s been following us since we left the hotel,” Sam said on a laugh.

“That is so weird.” I stared at the photographer for several seconds. He raised his hand and waved at me but didn’t come over. Obviously, he was waiting for us to start walking again. “How could I have missed him?” It wasn’t as if there were a bunch of people flooding the streets. It was mostly us and early morning coffee drinkers. That was it.

You missed it because you weren’t looking for him, my inner voice taunted. You were looking at her.

I tried to remain calm as I offered up a wan smile for their benefit. “Let’s keep going,” I said. “I want to see all of it.”

“Okay.” Daisy didn’t look as if she believed anything that came out of my mouth.

Sam, though, was perfectly happy and relaxed now that I’d stopped being a jerk to her. Was that all it took to make her happy? I wasn’t even being nice. I just wasn’t being a complete and total asshole. Imagine being so comfortable with yourself that someone not being a donkey was enough to make you legitimately happy.

How did that even work?

“Come on,” Daisy prodded. “The Bewitched statue is this way, and there’s a story that goes along with it. Then I’ll take you down by the water, past the House of the Seven Gables, show you where the best bars are—remind me to tell you about the pickle martini—and then we’ll get lunch.”

“What’s a pickle martini?” Sam asked.

“Exactly what it sounds like.”

“I’m both fascinated and terrified,” Sam admitted.

She wasn’t the only one, I realized. I was both fascinated and terrified as well…but for a completely different reason.

This was so not good.