The Inn at Laurel Creek (2 page)

***

The path had a slight incline that continued to build, and I was surprised to realize it wasn't as easy to navigate as I'd expected. I needed to get in better shape once I got back to the city. The path
curved and
dipped around sugar maple trees with wild, florid azalea bushes
covered
with pink and purple flowers growing beneath them. Springtime in northern Georgia was stunning, ablaze with vividly colored flowers in yellows, purples, pinks and reds. If anything, the timing of Matthew's
wedding gave me a chance to relish in the beauty of nature. And sneeze. A lot. I knew my allergies would be assaulted, so pulled out my allergy spray from the bag and gave myself a few shots up my
nose—never enjoyable, but always effective.

The creek began at a dip in the path, and I followed it for a bit, listening to the water bounce off the rocks and travel upstream. I found the perfect spot just where the creek turned and began its
descent. I
spread the throw Lou gave me and lay down on it, the sun hitting my skin as it peeked through the trees. The rays were the perfect temperature, heating my skin but not making me sweat.

"I could do this forever," I said, closing my eyes and relaxing.

I wasn't sure how long I lay like that, my eyes closed, breathing
in the fresh scents of lavender and pine, but the slight sound of soft, muted and rhythmic tones vibrated through the air and grabbed my attention. Someone was playing an acoustic guitar nearby, keeping
me
from dropping completely into slumber. I sat up and scanned the
area for the sweet-sounding melody.

I found the strummer across the creek. A man with shaggy blond
hair, just a little too long, wearing a blue t-shirt and khaki shorts sat on a similar throw, with an exact copy of the drawstring bag Lou
gave me.
He caught me gazing in his direction and our eyes locked. He lifted his mouth into a smile so sexy my body lurched forward, as if being pulled
to him. I pushed my hands into the ground to stop myself from
running across the creek to him.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Did I wake you?" His voice was low and
sultry and had me melting into a puddle of Carly mush before he finished a sentence.

My voice came out high and pitchy. "Oh no, not at all. I was just lying here relaxing. Please keep playing. It's beautiful."

"Thanks, it's just a little something I've started working on. It's not finished." He smiled again, and very specific parts of my body became fully aware of his presence.

"You wrote that? Wow. That's really good."

He nodded. "Thanks. It's what I do. I write music. Name's Ben." He raised a hand and waved it, and I couldn't help but notice his
long, thin
fingers, how they swayed as he waved, and how he spread them
wide, only to fold them back together again.

I breathed in a quick breath, catching myself before I let out a squeal of pleasure from watching that small but alluring hand gesture.

What was wrong with me?

Ben. Ben was cute. And Ben played the guitar. Ben wrote music. And Ben had a smile that made my stomach jump. Not to mention
that Ben
had broad shoulders and thin, muscular arms that filled up and busted
out of the short sleeves of his shirt. I reached my arm out, hoping it could stretch across the suddenly monstrous sized creek to touch his
muscles. I thought Ben might be just what I needed to fix my broken
heart. "Hi Ben, I'm Carly. Nice to meet you." I waved back.

"You too," he said. "I'll let you get back to your relaxing. Got any special requests? I can play and sing just about anything."

I didn't want him to play the guitar. I wanted him to strum his fingers all over my body instead. I bit my lip to stop myself from
making that suggestion.

Of course, when it came to figuring out a song, my mind went
blank.
"Uh." I pulled my blonde curls back and wrapped them into a
ponytail holder. "I can't think of anything, but please, keep playing."

"How about this?" He strummed the strings and a combination moan, hum, sexy groaning sound escaped his mouth.

Good Lord, he could sing too. It made me squirm, and my insides melted. After a few more of those sexy sounds, I recognized the song.
"Sunday Morning," a sensual, romantic ballad by Maroon Five.
Only he
sang it better than the singer, at least in my opinion. I touched my
chin to make sure my jaw wasn't hanging open.

There was something familiar in Ben's voice, but I couldn't quite
place it. It almost sounded as if he was trying to mimic a singer from a band, but the band's name escaped me. He was really good and
could
probably out-sing anyone I'd heard on the radio as of late, including
whoever that elusive band singer was.

He sang the whole song, and the only time he didn't maintain eye contact with me was when he closed his eyes, hitting the higher
notes. I
was uncomfortable but not in a bad way, shifting on the throw, sitting
on my hands and resting them on my lap. I couldn't take my eyes off him. Watching the way his hands moved, the way his fingers touched the strings of the guitar, the way his Adam's apple floated up and down his neck when his voice lowered. The way he licked his lips and
smiled as he sang the chorus, gazing steadily into my eyes the whole time.

My heart rate kicked up a notch and my blood rushed through my body, warming those same parts that awoke just a minute or two
before.
I crossed my legs instinctively in an attempt to hide the attraction my body
wanted to make obvious. Tiny pellets of sweat formed on my forehead. What the heck was happening to me? He was just a guy playing the guitar, but my senses went into overdrive. I could hear every chord his fingers played, every note his voice hit. I could
practically feel
his eyes blink, taste the moisture on his lips as he licked them between breaths. I wanted to jump up and run, run across that creek
and throw myself at him like a pre-teen at a boy band concert.

When he finished, I golf clapped—a pathetic attempt at being cute. Truth be told, I could listen to him forever, but I feared if I did I would
actually become that pre-teen at a boy band concert, so instead, I gathered my things to leave. "That was really amazing. You're incredibly talented," I said, stumbling over my words. "I'd love to stay and listen some more, but I need to get back and get ready for dinner."

He set the guitar on the throw. "Got it. No worries. I'll be here tomorrow, too. Same time. Same place." He ran a hand through his hair. "If you're not busy, of course. I'm always happy to have an
audience."

Did his teeth sparkle when he smiled or was my imagination in high gear?

"Great. That's great," I said, struggling to speak, afraid I'd say something pre-teenish. "I may just come by. If I'm not busy, I mean."
I waved as I walked away, and said, "Nice meeting you, Ben."

"You too, Carly."

He said Carly with such a heated, soft sexiness I actually moaned a
little.

***

Lou was watering flower baskets on the front porch of the Inn
when I returned. "Did you have a nice walk?" she asked.

I smelled the sunflowers she'd just watered. "I did, thanks for asking."

"I hope you didn't spoil your appetite none eatin' all those cookies," she said.

"No, I didn't. Actually, I got distracted and didn't even have any."

"Well, all righty then. I'm making my special fried catfish. Won all kinds of cookout awards here in town. Even been mentioned in the paper." She snipped a dead bud from another planter. "'Course, if you don't like fish, I could make you something else. Maybe chicken
salad?"

"I've never had fried catfish, but I'm sure I'll love it."

"I reckon you will." She took a glass from the serving tray on the front porch table, filled it with ice and poured in lemonade. "For you," she
said, handing it to me. "Sit a spell and rest. That walk must-a made
you give slap out."

I wasn't sure what "give slap out" meant, but I assumed it was something similar to tired, because that's how the walk back made me feel. "Thank you," I said, taking the glass. "I'm going to do just that." I sat in a rocker on the porch. "This is such a lovely place," I said. "How long have you owned it?"

"Oh, the house has been in my family since it was built way back
in the late eighteen hundreds. Eighteen ninety-two, to be exact." She plopped down into the chair next to me and fanned her face with her hand. "My great-grandmammy Abigail Pruitt was born in this house and died here, too. She swore till her dyin' day the house was
magical."
She rocked in her chair. "She wasn't lyin', neither. I seen all kinds-a miracles in my day."

"Miracles and magic huh?" I said, after sipping the sweet, tangy lemonade. "These next few days could turn out to be pretty exciting."

Lou stood. "That they will, honey. That they will." She patted my knee. "Now I best be gettin' back to my chores, 'fore Stan comes out
and catches me takin' a break." She winked, and then walked back into the house.

"See you at dinner," I said.

I sat on porch, rocking in the chair with my eyes closed, enjoying
the fresh lavender scent emanating from the wild lavender shrubs growing
off the side of the Inn. It was so calm, so peaceful, and I couldn't remember feeling that relaxed in months. A few months before Matthew
and I broke
up, actually. I made a mental note to remember that the next time I
missed him.

My relationship with Matthew had taken a negative turn about two months before he dumped me, at the same time my company, a graphic design studio in Buckhead, let several people go. The rest of
us were
worried we were next up for the pink slip, and I couldn't help but bring that tension home with me at night, which didn't make things any easier between Matthew and me. More people were laid off, but
by the grace
of God or sheer luck, I wasn't one of them. My job was okay, but my relationship dropped further into the toilet and shortly thereafter, Matthew gripped the handle hard, flushing it down into the bowels
of relationship sewage.

"I just don't see myself spending the rest of my life with you," he said, as he packed his t-shirts and video game console. "I don't want to hurt you, but we're just different people. We want different
things."

By different things, he meant I wanted a commitment, a
wedding, a
home and a family some day. Matthew didn't even want to commit to getting houseplants. He zig-zagged from job to job and career to career, and he was between jobs almost as often as he'd had one.
While we had often shared beautiful dreams and plans together about the romantic
places we'd travel to—Tuscany, Bali, the Costa Rican rainforest—usually while lying side-by-side, naked in bed after some great sex, it was all just pillow talk. Matthew was sexy, charming and elusive as
hell, yet I'd always thought that if I hung in there long enough, gave him enough space and supported his dreams, mine would someday come true.

I'd done this for five years, and we'd lived together for almost three of them. But it had only taken the next girl, his wife now, three months to do what I couldn't. Ten days after the break-up, I ran into
him at
happy hour at our old hangout and barely recognized him. He wore an expensive designer suit, and his shoulder-length brown hair was perfectly cut, coiffed and had even been slightly highlighted in the
front.

"What the hell happened to you?" I asked after I realized it was him.

He smiled sheepishly, showing the dimple I'd always been crazy about, and glanced down at himself with a shrug. "I got a new job. I
think I've finally found what I'm good at doing."

His smile became vaguely apologetic as this petite little doll of a woman with long, red curly hair that any sane woman would kill for
walked up and wrapped her arm around his waist. I recognized her from the Around Town section of the newspaper as a wealthy
Atlanta
investment banker's daughter. "Come on now Matt, we must get to
the club to meet my parents for dinner."

When Matt introduced her as his girlfriend, I almost choked on
my glass of wine.

"Sure looks like you did, huh gold digger," I said to him with a wink and a bright smile as fake as the redheaded debutante's perfect
boobs. I turned my Miss America smile toward her. "Good luck with him," I said, as casually as possible. As I turned away from them, I guzzled the rest of my wine, and marched straight to the bathroom
where I proceeded to barf my brains out.

I'd read the engagement announcement in the paper less than a week later, and I knew that if I didn't get the hell out of Dodge for their wedding date, my friends' and my parents' well-intentioned
sympathy
would be the death of me. I'd brought home a copy of the paper,
opened a bottle of wine, turned to the travel and timeshare classifieds in the back pages, and with my eyes closed, pointed at one…The Inn at Laurel Creek. I grabbed my laptop, checked the pictures on their website to make sure it wasn't a dump, and booked my reservation for the date of Matthew's wedding.