Behind Closed Doors (Rochester Trilogy 3.50)

Butcher block counters and distressed blue cabinets welcome me. Between the complimentary breakfasts, optional lunches, and afternoon teas, I spend a lot of time here. The only meal I don’t offer is dinner, because my talents are more about baking. I get by at lunch with sandwiches and soups. Cooking full meals is really beyond me. But I can make a delicious apricot pastry, which is a far cry from the microwave noodles I grew up with.

Ceramic canisters contain flour and sugar. I scoop them into bowls to begin cooking.

By the time I’m working in the kitchen, I hear the bell. He’s back.

Footsteps on the stairs. The creak of hot water through the pipes.

My heart thumps in my chest. I finish preparing breakfast, not quite paying attention. My thumb suffers from my distraction because I burn myself. “Ouch.”

I enjoy cooking. It’s given me a focus when I needed it most. The inn means a lot to me. It’s the only thing I own, the only thing that belongs to me in the world.

The water stops as I’m getting the serving dishes ready, so I give him some time to get dressed. With extra care, I set the table, ensuring there’s enough of everything. The waffles, eggs, and bacon are still warm as I set them on the sideboard. I ended up making more than I usually do because I’m sure he’ll be starving after his run.

And because he’s a large man. Packed with muscle.

There’s silence coming from upstairs. As the time ticks by, I’m worried the food will get cold. I leave the apron on the table and make my way to the stairs. Perhaps I should let him know everything is ready. Most guests would just come downstairs, but others will wait for me to give them a nudge.

Perhaps he’s decided to give me space to get the food cooked.

With every step I take, I inhale deeply. The masculine scent of his bodywash permeates the air. It’s a subtle fragrance which just makes it seem more intimate. It makes me think about him standing in the claw-foot tower under the showerhead, the way the water must have run down his abs. Heat burns my cheeks at the thought.

I step onto the landing.

The bathroom door swings open. Sam emerges from the steaming room wrapped in nothing but a towel. Every inch of his skin is dripping wet, and I can’t stop my thirsty gaze from drinking in every part of him that’s visible. His muscles gleam as the shimmering liquid sticks to him. Broad shoulders give way to hard-packed, muscled arms. His chest is lightly dusted with golden-brown hair.

And his abs are as chiseled as the Maine cliffside.

But what captures my attention is the prominent V which disappears beneath the towel. My throat turns dry. There’s a bulge in the front of the towel, and I have to bite down on my lip to keep sounds from escaping my mouth.

We’re close. Far too close on the small landing.

He takes a step toward me.

I stumble, flustered, out of breath, but before I can hit the ground, Sam catches me in his strong arms. His body is flush with mine as he pulls me against his warmth. The air is thick with steam as he stares down at me, his eyes dark.

My palms go to his chest. Those muscles? I can feel them. Mold my hands around them. Imagine him rising above me. Every part of him is hard against my body.

Desire rises in his eyes. Desire that holds me hostage for a long moment. The only sound is his breathing. And mine. And the soft drip drip drip of hot water falling from his body to the old hardwood floors.

“I… I made breakfast.” I whisper the words in a breathy tone which has my cheeks heating once more. The man before me is like a spy out of a movie—dangerous and handsome. I don’t want him to let go of me… but there’s also a sense that I can’t trust him.

He searches my eyes, as if he’s trying to find answers. After a tense few seconds, he straightens and releases me. I shiver, already missing his heat.

“I’ll be right down,” he tells me in that gruff way which does something else to my body. Something I don’t want to think about. I nod and turn away, putting my hand on the banister. When the click of his bedroom door sounds, I can finally breathe again.

I make my way down to the dining room.

The coffee pot is on the table, so he won’t need to call on me again. Thankfully.

That was intense. I head into my workroom, hoping to give him some space to enjoy the quiet of the room. And to give myself some space, too. Except it feels strangely stuffy in here today. The day has stayed chilly, even though there is a small sliver of sunshine that’s peeking through the clouds. I busy myself with the book, focusing on the tipped-in frontispiece rather than the man in my house that makes me feel things I shouldn’t feel.