Behind Closed Doors (Rochester Trilogy 3.50)

Chapter Four

Sam

I don’t want to get closer to this woman.

I don’t want to care about her.

The feel of her body against mine has imprinted in my mind. But my job is to get closer, to delve into her life. It will hurt her if she discovers what I’m doing. But there’s a deeper instinct telling me to protect her.

A meal is spread out. Crisp bacon and fluffy eggs. A stack of pancakes. A carafe of orange juice that looks fresh squeezed. My stomach grumbles as if I’ve never eaten before in my life.

In a way, I haven’t. Oh, there have been five-course meals. Expensive white plates with seared scallops and truffle sauce. The sort of thing made by chefs to sell. This isn’t like that at all. It’s made in someone’s kitchen to nourish the people they love, like a mother makes for a child. Or a wife makes for a husband.

I bite down on a piece of sugar-dusted waffle. A reluctant rumble of appreciation vibrates through my chest. It’s decadent in a way that has nothing to do with Michelin stars. Each bite warms me from the inside out.

As if she’s put a bit of sunshine in the cooking.

My chest tightens at the thought of Marjorie preparing everything for me to enjoy. It causes a lump to form in my throat. Fucking hell. Emotions have never been an issue for me because I bury them deep–where they belong. I learned that on my first job. No, I learned that before I was even recruited into the CIA, too smart and pissed off for my own good. I’d tripped some kind of wire in the system. Athletics combined with top grades in engineering had them knocking at my door. They’d been happy to beat the salary of private firms as long as I signed my life over. It had been the easiest signature I’d ever written.

Since stepping onto Maine soil, things have been different.

It’s too peaceful here. Too fucking quiet. Not the fake stillness of calm before a firefight. This is the real fucking thing with birds singing and waves lapping against stone.

I went for a run this morning to clear my head.

It didn’t work. Not when I walked back into the inn, smelling sweetness and salt. And definitely not when I bumped into Marjorie on the landing, her body warm against mine.

My past has been littered with darkness and violence.

I’ve never had a place to call home. I didn’t grow up with loving parents. My mother was a prostitute, too busy trying to get her next hit to cook dinner. My father was just one of the many customers who darkened our stoop.

Running drugs was a way to buy food and clothes. College was only possible because I was a fucking beast on the basketball court. And then the CIA found me.

I gave everything to the service. I’ve been shot, burned, and tortured. And I never once thought about quitting. Not until I set foot inside the Lighthouse Inn.

Marjorie walks in as I take the final bite. Her dark hair shimmers with raindrops. Her cheeks are red from the cold. She looks like some otherworldly creature. Fae or something. Not really human as she hums a greeting.

“How’s breakfast?”

“Delicious. How was the cold?”

A small laugh. “Beautiful. I think some days I go outside just so I can be freezing. When I come back inside, I’m reminded of how blessed I am to have this house.”

What a goddamn Pollyanna.

It’s adorable. And alarming. I don’t want the CIA to touch her with a ten-foot pole. Even my presence here is too close to the darkness I’ve seen.

“Eben Cape was started by lobstermen,” she says, telling me more about the history. I wonder how much of this is part of her job as the innkeeper—and how much is her desire for permanence when her childhood was uprooted.

I can’t allow myself to get emotionally entangled with her. She’s nothing more than a job I have to complete. “And you’ve gotten to know everyone here?” I ask, just to hear her voice again.

“It’s been like finding a new family.” Her words are filled with sadness, causing my chest to ache from the knowledge that she’s lost her real family. But each time I try to tell myself that, the more I find I want to know about her. Not because of the job. I just want to learn all there is to know about Marjorie.

“Sounds nice.” The bitterness on my tongue has nothing to do with the coffee, but instead, my own history. “Sometimes the family you find is better than the one you’re born with.”

“Are you speaking from experience?”

“No,” I say. “I haven’t found family.”

She gives me a small, gentle smile. “Maybe you’ll find some here.”

Chapter Five

Marjorie

Innkeepers keep early hours, but it’s still a surprise when my phone rings at six o’clock. The phone flashes with the name Emily Rochester.