Page 12 of The Billionaire's Runaway Bride

“Morning, sir,” I tell the first.

He grunts what might be a laugh. “Morning?” He looks at his watch and smirks at his opponent. “Hey, Earl, this city boy thinks it’s morning.”

I furrow my brow. City boy? I’m getting sick of this. I’ve never been ashamed to tell anyone I live in the Big Apple, but how could they tell? I’m wearing jeans. I’ve got a baseball hat on too.

“It’s damn well near noon, kid,” Earl tells me.

Never mind the time. I’m already late. I thought I’d be checking in at the Canary Whatever an hour ago.

“Could you help me find my way to the Breckenridge bed-and-breakfast?” I ask. I don’t want to admit I can’t remember the frou-frou name. They might think I’m a disrespectful city boy.

“Marian’s place?” Earl asks.

Before I can shrug and look dumb—and I loathe that by admitting that I’m lost could make me look dumb—I nod. How many B&B places can there be around here? It’s got to be the one. “Uh, yep.”

Earl smiles at his buddy. “What do you think, Ken? Should we tell him how to get there?”

Oh, for the love of—

“I have a reservation.”

“Oh, do you, now?” Ken nods. “Good. Good. I’m glad to see her getting business. We support our own here in Breckenridge.”

Earl clears his throat. “We look after our own, too.”

Got it. These grizzled old farts think I’m some kind of intruder. I wonder again how long I’ll need to stick around here. I sigh. “That’s great.”

“Well, the Goldfinch is just straight up Meadow Lane.”

I’m not sure why Ken chuckles at Earl’s directions. Is it a joke? Are they sending me somewhere further in the boonies to be even more lost?

“Yep. Straight.” Ken mimes a direct path with his hand. “You hook a left on Main outta here and that’ll take you to Meadow Lane.”

“And it’s a straight go from there,” Earl repeats.

That’s not so bad. A left and I’m on the road. It wasn’t so bad getting the directions from these two, either.

“Better hope you have four-wheel drive,” Ken adds with a smirk.

If this road is a straight path, I can’t see why. They do pave their streets out here, don’t they?

“Thanks.” I leave them to their game and coffee, figuring I’ll be there shortly.

I’m not. While most of the road is paved, significant potholes and cracks make it a rugged climb. Now I see why they’d laughed. Meadow Lane is a straight drive in a linear fashion. Going up and down all the hills and dips, though, I worry for the rental.

I eventually arrive at a rustic-looking house. It’s large, but not the prettiest to stare at. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mumble as I step out of the car. I shut the door and swear I hear something rattle. If that trek up the mountain didn’t bust something off the undercarriage, I’ll be shocked.

Grateful for a chance to stand still and sip my coffee—which I spilled more than a few splatters on the bumpy ride up here—I consider the Goldfinch. It’s an older residence with just enough neglect showing in its yard that I worry if vermin will be bothering me on my stay. It’s remote, tucked up here in the mountains, and I know without checking in that I’ll have to invest in a hefty Wi-Fi device to stay plugged in and connected.

“Morning!”

I turn toward the older woman who comes off the porch.

See? She thinks it’s morning too.

“Hi.”

She approaches, moving quickly for someone I’d guess is in her sixties. She’s nimble and spry, smiling wide. While she’s friendly, she’s eager with her greeting to make me wonder if she’s too friendly. Or maybe it’s whiplash—this woman being so joyful and welcoming after the grumpy guarded locals in town.

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