The Heart of Christmas. Brenda Novak

She wasn’t sure what she’d expected to learn or why any of it would matter. If he hadn’t been so secretive and standoffish, she probably wouldn’t have bothered.

      There was nothing that revealed a great deal about him, but a few clues gave her more information than she’d had. The type of pan used for prospecting sat on his nightstand. That told her what he was likely doing in Gold Country. On the small desk by the window overlooking the backyard was a laptop, and on the Little Mary’s writing pad by the phone, he’d jotted down some names and numbers.

      He wrote like a typical guy, she decided. He printed, but it wasn’t particularly legible. The name Jason Frick topped the short list. His area code suggested he was from the Bay Area, which was just a couple of hours away. She recognized it because so many of her patrons came from there.

      Was Frick a friend of Mr. Taylor’s, or a business associate? The other names were male, too, also from the Bay Area. Peter Viselli and Dom Chandler—although Dom’s name was crossed out.

      Eve “accidentally” ran her finger over the mouse section of the laptop while dusting, hoping his screensaver would dissolve into whatever he’d been working on, but it didn’t. The demand for a password popped up instead.

      She didn’t protect her own computers with a password, even the one she worked on here at the B and B. But there was hardly any crime in Whiskey Creek, and she had nothing to hide.

      So who was this Mr. Taylor?

      Obviously someone who lived in the city.

      Knowing she didn’t have long before Cheyenne or Deb came to find her—or Brent Taylor returned—she replaced his towels and minicontainers of soap, shampoo and conditioner and threw away the ones he’d used. Then she ran a vacuum over the carpet.

      When she was finished, she could hear Deb speaking to some guests in the hall. The usual morning sounds made her feel a bit embarrassed for poking around Mr. Taylor’s room. Had she crossed the line? Was she acting like a stalker?

      She really needed to get a life, she told herself, and, for the first time ever, considered hiring someone to run the inn for a few months so she could try something else before settling down for good and letting her life harden like cement.

      Maybe last night was a sign that she needed to broaden her horizons, embrace change, try new things.

      Maybe if she didn’t, she’d regret it later. Cheyenne would be having her baby soon. It wasn’t as if they’d get to work together after that, anyway. Or at least not for a while—

      “Hey.”

      Eve jumped and turned to see the very person she’d been thinking about standing at the door. “What are you doing up here?” she asked. “You’re not supposed to be climbing the stairs.”

      “Who said? The exercise is good for me, as long as I don’t fall.”

      “Falling’s what I’m worried about.” After trying for two years to get this baby, and resorting to what she’d resorted to, Cheyenne would be devastated if she lost it.

      “I’m being careful. I just wanted to let you know...” She winced as if what she had to say wouldn’t be welcome news.

      “What?” Eve prompted.

      “Your parents are back.”

      Eve’s hand flew to her mouth and she spoke through her fingers. “No!”

      “Yes. They’re waiting downstairs in the small parlor. They feel terrible that they didn’t make it in time for your birthday, so they had the part for the RV flown in, which cost them a lot more, and now they’re anxious to give you their present.”

      Her parents were too good. They had to be the best, most supportive people in the world, which was partly why Eve felt so embarrassed about her recent behavior.

      “You don’t think they’ll hear about last night....”

      “No! Of course not! Who’d tell them?” Cheyenne plastered a reassuring smile on her face, but Eve could see right through it.

      “You do think they’ll hear.”

      She let her smile wilt. “I’m afraid they might. We are talking about Noelle. When Kyle dropped by to give her his spousal maintenance, she had that other waitress over—Casey? He said they were talking and laughing about...the situation.”

      Casey hadn’t even been working on Thursday night.

      Eve closed her eyes as she pinched the bridge of her nose. She had to get out of this town. She felt trapped, stifled. As much as she loved Little Mary’s and Whiskey Creek and all the people she’d grown up with, she needed something new. But it seemed odd that this realization had burst upon her so suddenly. Did other people question where they were in life at only thirty-five? Was she having a midlife crisis before she ever hit midlife?

      Maybe she should take whatever money she’d saved and travel across Europe....

      “I’ll finish up,” Cheyenne said. “What’s left?”

      “Nothing.” As Eve wound up the vacuum cord, she thought once more about telling Cheyenne that Brent Taylor was the man she’d slept with, but changed her mind. She didn’t want Cheyenne to find out that he’d lied to her about his name. And even if he didn’t check out today, he wouldn’t be in Whiskey Creek for long.

      “Want me to go down with you?” Cheyenne asked. “Would that help you face them?”

      “No. I’ve got to put the vacuum away first—and I’m not going to let you carry it down those stairs so don’t even offer. Just tell them I’m coming.”

      Cheyenne gave her a quick hug. “You’re in your thirties. If they do hear about last night, they probably won’t say anything.”

      Of course they wouldn’t. They weren’t intrusive. It was what they’d think that troubled Eve.

      Again, she felt a desperate need for more space, a change of scenery, a chance to figure out if the person she’d become was the person she wanted to be. Maybe she’d been treading water, hoping for the kind of love some of her friends had found, but it didn’t look as though that was going to happen for her. At least not here... Maybe it took her thirty-fifth birthday to make her realize she had to go in a different direction.

      She listened to Cheyenne’s footsteps recede. Then she lifted up the vacuum. But before she could collect her cleaning bucket, she noticed the luggage tag on Brent Taylor’s suitcase and set the vacuum down.

      There was his personal information. She should make a note of it in case there was some reason he didn’t want to give it out. Say...if the FBI happened to be looking for him. If she was going to be stupid enough to sleep with a stranger, a possible fugitive from the law, she should do what she could to point the police in the right direction if they came knocking at her door.

      But the tag didn’t say the suitcase belonged to a Brent Taylor, or even a Jared. Taylor Jackson was written in the same handwriting as the names on the pad. There was no address. Just a number, which she keyed into the notes section of her phone.

      Had he borrowed someone else’s luggage?

      It was possible. But the fact that he’d used two names already gave her the feeling it was more significant than that.

      What was going on with this guy? Last night he’d been the perfect lover. Attentive and responsive. The more she remembered about being with him, the more convinced she became that he’d provided the best sex she’d ever had. He’d seemed to enjoy himself, too. Yet this morning, after everything they’d done, he would scarcely give her the time of day, had acted particularly odd when she asked for his full name and, even though he’d said he was Jared, he’d checked in as Brent Taylor and his bag indicated it belonged to a Taylor Jackson.

      Knowing she had to go and greet her parents, she grabbed her cleaning stuff and hurried out, closing the door