Finding Reese (Tremont Lodge Series Book 1) Read Free Page A

in the middle. Now get going. And, remember to tuck the sheets tight—very tight—under the ends of the mattress.”
    “Yes, Helen,” we say in unison.
    My first room is a disaster, and it’s a multiple as Helen calls rooms that are checked out for more than one night. Those rooms tend to be messier, I suppose, as people know they aren’t leaving soon, so there’s no need to be packed and organized. I wonder, though, if it’s the people with the perfect pedigree homes where everything has its place who are the worst hotel guests. Where else can they let down their guard more completely than at a hotel? After all, they have a maid cleaning up their mess and catering to their whims. The stench hits me first. It’s a mixture of greasy pizza, dirty socks, and cigarette smoke. Great. That means I’ll have to scrub down the walls and then spray to cover up the cigarette smoke that is not even allowed in this room. I make a mental note to tell Helen to let the hotel management know.
    I put my headphones on and crank up my iPhone despite the rules against that. What Helen doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Cleaning always moves faster when assisted by a good beat. I also slip on disposable gloves. Even though I am not well-traveled, I know what kind of stuff happens in hotel rooms. I once made the mistake of watching a news show that did a private investigation of some of the best hotels around the country. They shined a black light on the common areas in a hotel room, and the fluids and grossness that light revealed was enough to bring the strongest man to his knees.
    We didn’t travel any more after we went to live with my grandparents. Taking in two young children when they were well past the child-rearing stage themselves was not only an emotional and physical burden, but a financial one, too. Blake was still in diapers and drinking formula. No Disney World for me, or even Great America, for what that’s worth. But when the Spanish Club at my high school sponsored a dozen fundraisers for our trip to Spain my junior year, I’d attended every one of them. I was there setting up chairs before anyone else arrived for the spaghetti dinners, and I stayed to mop floors, not leaving until the advisors said that everything was spotless. It was a great trip with plenty of camera-ready moments, but it was my first kiss in the middle of Puerta del Sol, the plaza in Madrid, that stains the forefront of my memory. While waiting for the rest of our group to return from shopping, I became enamored by a street performer who played the guitar in front of a large fountain. His chiseled good looks reminded me of statues we’d seen earlier in the day at Museo del Prado. The melody strummed from his guitar, filling the space with words that, though foreign to my mind, played familiar to my heart. He’d beckoned me closer, and I’d gone. I felt as though I were an audience of one despite the large group that filled in beside me. And then, right in the middle of one of his songs, he paused midstrum, stood up, walked over to where I was standing, put one finger on the bottom of my chin, and tipped it up. Then he kissed me on the lips, very softly. I must have closed my eyes because only the applause of the audience we’d attracted brought me back to reality. Of course, my Spanish teacher who was by then grabbing me by one arm away from the street performer, was aghast and yelling at him in all sorts of Spanish words she’d not taught us. If I’d penned the most romantic first kiss scene possible, it could not have matched that day.
    A tap on my shoulder sends the vacuum cleaner careening across the floor into the edge of the dresser. A half cup of coffee falls to the floor. I turn around expecting to yell at Tinley for scaring the crap out of me. “Look what you did!” But it’s not Tinley I am yelling at.
    “Well, you didn’t hear me the five times I called out to you, so what was I supposed to do?” A man about my age with squinty