Chapter 2: Fortune Inn – Sensitivity
1017 Words
Over an hour later, Elliot Vance came downstairs to find two additional people in the lobby.
Clara Hayes introduced them as the inn’s driver and the cook, then asked if he had any dietary restrictions.
When he said he didn’t eat cilantro, Clara felt a pang of disappointment.
Because she loved cilantro.
Once the cook, Mrs. Wilkins, and the driver, Abe, had taken the groceries to the kitchen, Clara returned to the front desk and handed Elliot his ID. "Your identification, sir. And your bill."
As she passed him the invoice, she realized her coat sleeve was still rolled up, exposing the black wrist brace she wore. She quickly tugged it down, hiding the brace from view.
The motion was casual—unnoticeable to anyone else—but the flicker of unease in her eyes didn’t escape Elliot’s notice.
He skimmed the bill and pulled out his phone to pay, only for a series of notifications to flash across the screen: Account Frozen.
"One moment," he said, stepping aside to make a call.
Clara overheard him say, "Wire me 100K now."
"Yes, everything’s frozen."
"I’ll let you know if I need more."
Most people would hide financial ruin like this. Yet Elliot hadn’t just handed over his ID—he’d left it with her for ages. Now he was openly discussing his frozen accounts in front of her.
What game is he playing?
Was this a test? To see if she’d gossip about him?
As Elliot spoke to Shawn Rayne, his gaze kept drifting back to Clara. Her fingers tapped absently against the desk—a clear sign she was deep in thought.
By the time the call ended, the money had transferred. He paid the bill and fixed her with a measured look.
"I don’t like women who try too hard to be clever."
"…" She hadn’t even said anything. How was that trying too hard?
"I’m here for peace. I don’t want to be disturbed."
"…" And?
"Hand over the recording device."
"Me? Recording you?" Clara was too baffled to even be offended.
"Take off the wrist brace." His tone left no room for argument.
"It’s not—" She fumbled for words, frustration mounting. How was she supposed to convince him there was no hidden camera? "I’m not—"
The look in his eyes—disbelief, disdain—sent a sharp memory flashing through her mind.
Her father, years ago, on his knees, pleading with investigators: "I don’t know where that money came from!"
The same skepticism in their eyes.
Refusing to fall into the trap of self-defense, Clara pulled out her phone and opened the security feed app. "If I wanted footage of you, I’d use our actual cameras. Why would I bother with a hidden one?"
Elliot studied the live feed. Then, slowly, the tension in his shoulders eased. "My apologies."
A rare second admission followed: "I shouldn’t have assumed."
Her movement?
Clara glanced at her sleeve. The black brace. The way she’d hurried to cover it.
If she were in his position—newly bankrupt, wary of prying eyes—she might’ve jumped to the same conclusion.
Even the strongest falter when they fall from the top.
"No need to apologize. I overreacted too." She rolled her sleeve back up, exposing the brace fully. "I was being overly cautious."
The snow continued to fall.
Clara poured tea for Elliot, who had accepted her invitation to sit. Now that the misunderstanding was cleared, she wanted to address the elephant in the room—but his relaxed demeanor made her doubt the bankruptcy rumors entirely.
As she studied him, he studied her right back.
The way she bit her lip, smudging her lipstick. The way her brow furrowed, like she was wrestling with something. Most women he’d dealt with in business were calculated. Her hesitation seemed genuine.
"What is it?" he asked, sipping his tea.
"I owe you another apology." She met his gaze. "After you gave me your ID, I… looked you up online."
"And?" His expression didn’t change.
"I just—" His steady stare unnerved her. There was a quiet authority in it, the kind she’d never faced before. "I’m not a business rival. I have no stake in whatever’s happening with you. I’m just an inn manager. A nobody. I’m not a threat."
His fingers drummed lightly against the table, like piano keys.
God, his hands are beautiful.
She snapped back to focus. "I know how to keep my mouth shut. If you trust me, stay. If not, there are other inns in town. I’ll refund you in full—consider it my penance for prying."
Elliot stilled his fingers. Her cheeks were flushed, her nerves unmistakably real.
Shawn had praised her intelligence, her tact. She was clever—clever enough to play the vulnerable card when facing someone stronger.
And yet, he found her bluntness refreshing.
"I may stay longer than a week," he admitted.
Her surprise was evident.
"The friend who recommended this place said Willowbrook was ideal for an extended stay. I plan to remain until the liquidation team leaves my headquarters. Then I’ll return to Federal Cross."
"Can I take back what I said earlier?" Clara’s tone shifted instantly, her smile turning bright, almost too eager. "Other inns aren’t as comfortable as ours. The views here are unmatched. You should definitely stay."
"A compelling argument." He sipped his tea, deadpan. "I’ll consider it."
"Don’t consider it." She leaned in, mischief glinting in her eyes. "Or I might start talking."
"Prove it."
"…" Wait. Did that sound… suggestive?
Elliot realized it a beat too late. And judging by the faint blush on Clara’s cheeks, she had too.
Neither was the type to feign innocence.
"Mr. Vance," Clara said smoothly, "tightness isn’t something you see. It’s something you feel."
A slow smirk tugged at his lips. Interesting.
His fingers tapped the edge of the table once. Then, with perfect composure, he added:
"Tight or loose depends greatly on the… measurements of the object in question."
Clara’s throat went dry.
Not a single retort came to mind.
- Writer
