The Alpha's Lost Heiress

HAZELEYES

POV: Millie

I've been picking at my second helping of pancakes for the last thirty minutes. Diane keeps my coffee cup full to the top, but she rushes off before I can think of the first question to actually ask her. There are just so many answers I need. My best bet is probably to stay parked on my ass at the counter until the breakfast rush finally dies down and I stand a better chance of getting her all to myself. That's not exactly a hard task, considering I have no idea where I'm even going from here.

The pancakes are weighing me down hard. If not for Diane's bottomless pot of coffee, I'd probably be asleep face first on this counter already. I keep checking my phone like staring at it long enough might magically conjure up a signal. Chasity's probably frantic by now. It's been over twenty four hours since she's heard a word from me. I feel a little like I've fallen off the edge of the earth and landed somewhere out of the Twilight Zone myself.

I should get off my ass and find a payphone. Surely even somewhere this remote there's one left standing somewhere. I could beg Mr. Galloway to see me a day early. Otherwise, I need to figure out somewhere to crash for the night, though I have no clue where that would even be, except probably a good drive from here. After driving all day and all night just to get this far, the thought of climbing back behind the wheel again is exhausting all on its own.

My god, I still can't quite wrap my head around owning an actual house. Maybe, if I can find a payphone and play on Mr. Galloway's sympathies, I could be sleeping in my own house tonight. My house. He's gone to a lot of trouble to assure me everything's already in order. The idea of sleeping in a bed someone else slept in gives me a low grade case of the creeps, if I'm honest. I guess it's no different than a hotel room, technically, where hundreds or thousands of strangers have slept before me. It's not cooties exactly. Maybe a little. My grandfather slept in that bed, sat on that couch, lounged in that easy chair. His thumbprint is on every single thing I've inherited.

I need to come at this with an open mind. It's just a house. Furniture. Whatever else he left behind. Objectively, it's no different than moving into any other secondhand apartment, and that's never bothered me before. There's no real reason it should bother me now. Everybody leaves some kind of imprint behind them. I'm sure, even though I checked every corner of my old room before taping the last box shut, that I left something behind in the move too. This feels different though. He's dead. I'm not.

Hopefully seeing the place in person and signing the papers will finally settle the disbelief that's been sitting in my chest since the first phone call, that a Victorian manor and acres of land are actually mine. Sure, it'll be awkward at first. Not knowing a single soul. Though judging by the stares I've collected just sitting at this counter, plenty of people already know me.

I'm used to a ten by ten room, a shared bathroom, and fighting over the TV remote. I'm apparently about to have four bedrooms, a full kitchen, an attic, a basement, two bathrooms, a formal dining room, an actual honest to God study, and a living room all to myself.

I've never really known what it's like to have that much space. Housing in L.A. isn't cheap, and even though my parents' place had plenty of room for the three of us, it still felt crowded sometimes. I don't know how I'll fill a house that size all on my own. I'm not even sure yet if I'm staying or selling out and heading straight back to California. But something in me feels like I owe this place an honest try before I make that call either way.

I'm not used to this kind of attention. The stares are a little unnerving. Nobody's approached me yet, but I have a feeling somebody eventually will. Strangers usually pump gas, grab a bite, and move on. They don't move in next door. I wonder how long it'd take, if I actually stay, before I'm considered one of them instead of an outsider. I noticed the county sheriff idle in the parking lot earlier, long enough to run my plates before pulling back out. I don't know what that was about. I've never even had a speeding ticket. I'm guessing the sheriff knows that about me by now too.

Another splash of hot coffee into the cold dregs at the bottom of my mug jolts me back awake. I almost did fall asleep face first onto this stained Formica counter. I really need to get moving. Ask Diane about a payphone. Call Mr. Galloway and beg him to finalize the paperwork today. If he says no, maybe he'll point me toward a hotel, or let me crash on his couch for the night.

I try to flag Diane down, but she's busy flirting with a mountain of a man parked at the end of the counter. It's strange, for as packed as this place is, packed enough that people are milling around with coffee waiting on a seat to open up, that I've got the wall pinned to my right and an empty stool on my left. Nobody wants to sit next to the new kid in town. I'm not offended. It's been over twenty four hours since my last shower, and I'm not exactly at my freshest. Nobody's tried to start a conversation either, and honestly, I'm fine with that. I'm in no mood for small talk.

Diane clears my plate and drops the check in front of me without a word about giving up my seat, which works fine since I'm not moving until I figure out my next step. If my phone actually had a signal, I'd drive straight out to the house myself. Stupidly, I never wrote the directions down on paper. Screw it, if I had reception, I'd call Mr. Galloway, then drive out with my keys already in hand and start settling in. Setting up shop wouldn't take long anyway. Comfortable pajamas and a place to sleep, that's really all I want tonight. The rest can wait.

The cowbell tied to the door jangles, announcing another customer. Not exactly news, that bell's been ringing nonstop since I sat down. The diner is neat as a pin despite the worn, dated shabbiness of it. In the polished stainless steel panel across from me, I catch the blurry reflection of a man crossing the room toward the empty seat at the counter. The whole energy in the room shifts. People keep talking, but their voices drop to something hushed.

I sneak a glance at my new counter mate out of the corner of my eye. With the casual ease of a man completely at home in his own skin, he slides onto the stool beside mine and drops a thick file on the counter. I'm trying hard not to stare. I fail completely. Heat creeps up my neck from the effort of trying not to be obvious about checking him out. He's tall, lean, his skin tanned and a little weathered from the sun. His biceps strain against the fabric of his button down. His slacks cling to his thighs. He's wearing a pair of battered black biker boots that have absolutely nothing to do with the look he's apparently going for, and somehow it still works. This is the kind of man who could show up to the opera in a polka dot Speedo and still make it look like the sexiest thing in the room.

His windblown hair curls against his collar in a mess of shades, soft chocolate brown, coppery red, sun bleached blond all tangled together. A hint of ginger stubble shadows his angular jaw. I flush when he smiles at Diane and thanks her for the menu. His lips are full, and I catch myself wondering if they're as soft as they look. His forearms are just as muscular as the rest of him, flexing as he wraps long fingers around his coffee mug.

I'm trying not to look at him. I'm trying, and failing miserably. I duck my head and fuss with my napkin instead of staring outright. My heart trips over itself at the cleft in his chin. I'd love to drag my tongue over that shallow little dip on my way up to his mouth. The thought alone curls my toes inside my shoes.