Love at Cape Luella Read online

  When I finished, I handed over the card and gave him my best campground manager smile.

  “You’ll be in spot G-6,” I said as I handed over the map with the spot circled in red marker. “Follow the map and you’ll find it with no problem.”

  “All right. Thank you, Miss Bransen.” The man accepted his credit card and the map and turned to leave. “Question though… if we were to stay a second night, could you possibly give us a discount on the second night?”

  “I wish I could Mr. Leeland, unfortunately, this is our peak season. If you look on our website, it specifically says ‘No Discounts During Peak Season’. It’s really a decent rate.” I imagined daggers in my hand as the man sighed and went through the exit door… finally.

  Turning to collapse in my office chair with every intention of fantasizing about the way too young men, my gaze landed on the clock.

  “Fuck!” That can’t be the time.

  I was supposed to be in Butte to pick up a guest. The man had paid extra for the chauffeur service and I wasn’t one to turn down money. Especially when all I had to do was spend a few hours of my time on the road and making sure he had everything he needed before driving him to Garter Point.

  Grabbing my keys I shoved my feet into my boots and rushed out to my truck. As with most of my things, the truck was about ten years old and a dusty, dulled blue. The wind and dust of Montana tended to dull the shine on most cars. At least that’s what I said to make myself feel better. The truck was inherited with the campground from my grandparents. I had done my best to keep everything running for them before they died, but I was only a teenager back then. However, it was customers like Mr. Jordan — whom I was most likely going to be late picking up — who would help me put ‘The Brambles’ on the map as one of the top camping sites in Montana. I ran my fingers over the logo painted on the door of the truck.

  I promise, Nana, I’ll make it work. I won’t let you and Papa down. My grandmother had hand painted the logo which was why I hadn’t purchased a new truck. One day I would have to, but for now, I would keep ‘Ole Blue going.

  Finally heading down the gravel drive, dust floated around the outside of the truck as I blasted the air conditioner and hoped I Mr. Jordan wouldn’t be kept waiting. Flights were typically a bit late getting in, right? I wondered as I used a bandana to wipe sweat from my neck. The sun was in rare form today and I’d hoped to pick up an iced coffee at the little shop in Butte while I was there to help keep from melting. Fishing my cell from the pocket of my cutoff jeans, I glanced at the time.

  Damn it. No iced coffee this time. Pressing down on the gas I turned onto the main road a few miles over what would be considered safe and accelerated to what I knew I could get by with in my small town. Damn Mr. Leeland and that old brochure. I could have stopped at the club if he hadn’t shown up right when I’d originally planned to leave. And, I would have still had time for an iced coffee after letting off some steam. Watching those college kids had my clit aching. Tonight, I’d be going solo.

  Letting out a sigh, I switched on the radio and lost myself in the notes crooning from the very expensive speakers I’d splurged on. The truck may be old, but it had a damn fine sound system.

  *

  “I could have stopped for the iced coffee,” I grumbled as I checked the Delta arrivals screen.

  Mr. Jordan’s flight had been canceled. I was sure he would have caught another flight, but now I had no idea what time to expect him.

  “Lila Bransen. Ms. Lila Bransen, please see an attendant at the Delta counter, please?” Hopefully the tinny sounding voice coming over the loudspeaker was sending me somewhere for information.

  “I’m Lila Bransen,” I said as I approached the desk.

  “Hello, Ms. Bransen, I have a message for you from a Mr. Jordan.” The flight attendant gave me a smile as she handed over a folded piece of paper.

  “Thank you.” I replied absently as I turned to find someplace more private to read the message.

  Dear Ms. Bransen:

  My apologies for not being able to reach you about the flight changes. If it is at all possible, could you pick me up at 7 p.m.? I’ll meet you out front of the airport, no need for you to come inside. I know it is a drive for you and would understand if we need to make other arrangements. However, I will double the fee I already agreed to for transportation to compensate you for your time.

  Please send a text to the following number if you are agreeable to the new time: 801-777-9695.

  Apologetically,

  Zade Jordan

  The message was a printed off email, the addresses had been cut away but the subject line was still readable — ‘RE: Urgent: Give to Ms. Lila Bransen at the Bert Mooney Airport, Butte, MT. The bottom of the page was also removed and had probably contained an additional message.

  I re-folded the paper and walked back to the exit and my truck. I now had several hours to kill because no way was I going to turn down double the already agreed on fee. I wasn’t desperate for the money, but any money I could add to the campgrounds improvement fund was good money.

  Digging in my pocket for my cell, I pulled it out and noted the time. Four hours… definitely enough time to hit the club. Will one of the guys be there at this hour? I wondered. I shivered at the thought of letting off some steam. God, I hope at least one of them is there.

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