cecilia-ahern-love-rosie

430 Cecelia AhernThe bell from the front desk downstairs rang loudly. Rosie tutted andglanced at her watch. 6:15.A guest had arrived.She rose to her feet slowly, wincing at the pain of being crouched in thesame position for hours. She held on to her bedpost and pulled herself up ontoher feet. She slowly straightened her back.The bell rang again.Her knees cracked.“Ouch, coming!” she called out, trying to hide the irritation in her voice.She had been so stupid to stay up all night reading those letters, today wasa busy day and she couldn’t afford to be tired. She had five guests leaving andfour more arriving not long after them. Their bedrooms needed to be cleaned,their sheets washed and replaced for the next arrivals, and she hadn’t evenstarted making breakfast yet.She carefully tiptoed between the mess of letters scattered around the rug,trying not to step on the important papers she had saved all her life.The bell rang again.She rolled her eyes and cursed under her breath. She was not in the moodfor impatient guests today. Not when she hadn’t had a second’s sleep.“Just a minute,” she called cheerfully, holding on to the banister andrushing down the stairs. She felt her toe hit against the luggage that had stupidlybeen placed by the end stair. She felt herself falling forward and then ahand grab her firmly by the arm to steady her.“I’m so sorry,” the man apologized and Rosie’s head shot up. She tookin the man that stood before her, nearly six feet in height with dark hairthat had grayed along the sides. His skin was tired and wrinkled around theeyes and mouth. His eyes looked tired, as would anybody’s who had justspent four hours in a car to Connemara after a five-hour flight. But thoseeyes sparkled and they glistened as the moisture inside them began to wellup.Rosie’s eyes replied and filled up also. The grip on her arm tightened.It was him. Finally it was him. The man who had written the final lettershe had read that morning, begging her for an answer.