The Gamble (Colorado Mountain #1)(3)

“Slim?” he said into the phone. “Yeah, got a woman here a…” he looked down at the papers, “Miss Sheridan.”

“Ms.,” I corrected automatically and his clear gray eyes came back to me.

It had also dawned on me, at this juncture, that he had a strangely attractive voice. It was deep, very deep, but it wasn’t smooth. It was rough, almost gravelly.

“A Ms. Sheridan.” He cut into my thoughts and emphasized the “Ms.” in a way that I thought, maybe, wasn’t very nice. “She’s lookin’ for keys.”

I waited for this Slim person, who I suspected was Mr. Andrews the absent caretaker, to explain to this amazing looking man that I had a confirmed, two week reservation, pre-paid, with a rather substantial deposit in the rather unlikely event of damage. And also I waited for this Slim person to tell this amazing looking man that there obviously was some mistake and perhaps he should vacate the premises so I could unload my car, put away the perishables, have a shower, talk to Niles and, most importantly, go to sleep.

“Yeah, you f**ked up,” the amazing looking man said into the phone then he concluded the conversation with, “I’ll sort it out.” Then he beeped a button and tossed the phone with a clatter on the counter and said to me, “Slim f**ked up.”

“Um, yes, I’m beginning to see that.”

“There’s a hotel down the mountain ‘bout fifteen miles away.”

I think my mouth dropped open but my mind had blanked so I wasn’t sure.

Then I said, “What?”

“Hotel in town, clean, decent views, good restaurant, down the mountain where you came. You get to the main road, turn left, it’s about ten miles.”

Then he handed me my papers, walked to the front door, opened it and stood holding it, his eyes on me.

I stood where I was then I looked out the floor to A-point windows at the swirling snow then I looked at the amazing but, I was tardily realizing, unfriendly man.

“I have a booking.” I told him.

“What?”

“A booking,” I repeated then explained in American, “a reservation.”

“Yeah, Slim f**ked up.”

I shook my head, the shakes were short and confused. “But I pre-paid two weeks.”

“Like I said, Slim f**ked up.”

“With deposit,” I went on.

“You’ll get a refund.”

I blinked at him then asked, “A refund?”

“Yeah,” he said to me, “a refund, as in, you’ll get your money back.”

“But –” I began but stopped speaking when he sighed loudly.

“Listen, Miss –”

“Ms.,” I corrected again.

“Whatever,” he said curtly. “There was a mistake. I’m here.”

It hadn’t happened in awhile but I was thinking I was getting angry. Then again, I’d just travelled for seventeen plus hours; was in a different country; in a different time zone; it was late, dark, snow was falling, the roads were treacherous; I had hundreds of dollars worth of groceries in my car, some of which would go bad if not refrigerated and hotels didn’t have refrigerators, at least not big refrigerators; I was tired and I had a head cold coming on, so I could be forgiven for getting angry.

“Well, so am I,” I returned.

“Yeah, you are, but it’s my house.”

“What?”

“I own it.”

I shook my head and it was those short, confused shakes again.

“But, it’s a rental.”

“It is when I’m not here. It isn’t when I’m home.”

What was happening finally dawned on me fully.

“So, what you’re saying is, my confirmed booking is really an unconfirmed booking and you’re cancelling at what is the absolute definition of the very last minute?”

“That’s what I’m sayin’.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m speakin’ English, we do share a common language. I’m understandin’ you.”

I was confused again. “What?”

“You’re English.”

“I’m American.”

His brows snapped together and it made him look a little scary mainly because his face grew dark at the same time. “You don’t sound American to me.”

“Well, I am.”

“Whatever,” he muttered then swept an arm toward the open door. “You’ll get a refund first thing Monday morning.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I just did.”

“This is… I don’t… you can’t –”

“Listen, Ms. Sheridan, it’s late. The longer you stand there talkin’, the longer it’ll take you to get to the hotel.”

I looked out at the snow again then back at him.

“It’s snowing,” I informed him of the obvious.

“This is why I’m tellin’ you, you best get on the road.”

I stared at him for a second that turned into about ten of them.

Then I whispered, “I can’t believe this.”

Then I didn’t have to wonder if I was getting angry. This was because I knew I was livid and I was too tired to think about what I said next.