Page 21 of No Room in the Inn

“Hey,” he says over his shoulder as he heads to the sink. “That’s insulting to the entire squatting and homeless population of America.”

Crap. He’s kind of right. Just because someone has the misfortune of being homeless doesn’t mean they’re an animal.

“Sorry,” I say. “I stand corrected.”

“And ashamed, I hope,” he says, and the kitchen fills with the sound of him stirring water into his hot chocolate mix. Then he adds…cinnamon?

Weird. “Ashamed too,” I say. I take a sip of hot chocolate. I’m determined for today to go better than last night, so I speak politely when I ask, “Is there any whipped cream?”

His eyes sparkle with amusement when he looks at me.

“For the hot chocolate,” I clarify.

He grins. “You’re in luck.” He grabs a canister out of the fridge and hands it to me, his eyes still dancing with silent laughter. I get the feeling he’s trying to coax me away from my tears into a better mood.

And if his weapon of choice is hot chocolate, his plan is going to work. I waste no time topping my drink with liberal amounts of whipped cream.

“All right,” I say after taking another sip. “Yesterday I think we got off on the wrong foot. Let’s start over.” I hold out my hand. “I’m Willow Scott. It’s nice to meet you.”

It’s notthatnice to meet him, but whatever.

He smirks as though he can hear what I’m thinking, but he slowly reaches out and takes my hand. His hand dwarfs mine, and it’s rough and calloused.

“Nixon,” he says. “But your Granny called me Mr. Nixon.”

Chapter 11

Willow

Ichoke on the hot chocolate I’m swallowing.

“Nixon?” I say when I’ve finished coughing.

He just nods, looking amused. “Nixon.”

“You’re kidding,” I say, because what are the odds that this guy is named Nixon—or that he’s the Nixon Granny wanted me to look in on?

“I’m not kidding,” he says. Then he looks pointedly down at our hands, which I realize too late are still clasped together.

“Sorry,” I say, letting go of him. “But no way. You just heard me say ‘Mr. Nixon’ last night—”

“And thought it would be fun to assume a random identity just so you could call my bluff thirty seconds later?” he says, raising one eyebrow.

Well, when he says it like that, it does sound dumb.

He sighs, digging in his pocket. A second later he’s got his wallet out. “Here,” he says. “Since my word apparently isn’t good enough.” He pulls out a card, and when he hands it to me, I’m amazed to see that the name on his ID is, in fact, Nixon. Nixon Hallstrom.

“Nixon, huh?” I say, shaking my head as I hand the card back. I look at him, trying to process this latest piece of the puzzle Granny left me. “Like…Watergate Nixon?”

He cocks one eyebrow as he shoves his wallet back in his pocket. “That judgy face is pretty bold coming from someone named after a tree.”

I feel my face flush, but I resist the urge to touch my cheeks. “My parents were hippies,” I mutter.

He nods, smiling. “We’ve got some of those in this town.”

I snort. “Yeah—my parents.”

“Who Granny wanted you to reconcile with,” Nixon says.

---