Behind Closed Doors (Rochester Trilogy 3.50)

“Is something wrong?” It’s a dramatic way to answer the phone, but I can’t help it. Emily’s been through hell and back, thanks to her deceased husband. She’s mostly rebuilt her life. I can’t help but worry. I know how hard the past holds on to you.

“No,” she says quickly, sounding a little chagrined. “I’m sorry to make you worry. It’s just that I got Mateo to agree to take me up the coast to that little shop. You know the one.”

“The naked baby record player.” We both love to go antiquing. The shop names never stick in our heads, though. Instead, we remember them by the strangest thing we’ve ever found in the aisles. A portrait of Elvis made entirely of seeds. A freakishly realistic mounted head of a T-rex, which must have used the skin and eyes of another poor creature. In this case, it was a gramophone with a scalloped horn, each leaf engraved with a naked, winking cherub.

“I already called, and they’re open. I thought you could come.”

“I have a guest,” I say with some regret. Emily and I have been friends for years. She’s only recently started dating the heartthrob Mateo Martin. I want her to be happy. God, she deserves it after what she’s been through, but I can’t help but be wary. Her first husband was abusive. I wouldn’t trust any man with her right now, but she wants me to get to know him.

“But it’s the off season.”

“He didn’t get the memo.” My voice is flippant, as if it’s no big deal that there’s someone here. When in reality, it feels strange. Purposeful. As if he didn’t just stop somewhere on his path. As if this was his destination all along. “What are you looking for?”

“There’s this space at the end of the hall that needs filling.” She’s been methodically replacing each piece of furniture since she moved in. After the dark memories and the literal fire, she wants a fresh start for her and her adorable daughter. “But you know the best things are always surprises. Paige still loves that parking meter we found last time.”

It was a birthday present for her daughter. Paige is precocious and sweet–and obsessed with all things Monopoly. We found the parking meter in the back of a shop. Emily cleaned it up and painted it red. Along the pole, she wrote Free Parking.

“Does Mateo like antiquing?”

“He’s never been, but Paige slept over at Beau and Jane’s last night. I already know she stayed up late and ate too much popcorn. So she won’t come back for a couple hours.”

She keeps talking about Paige and how she’s getting along with Mateo.

I move the phone call to my watch so I can stick my phone in my pocket. As much as I love old things, I also embrace technology. It allows me to stay on the phone while I grab the vacuum cleaner from the closet. It’s not the first time we’ve ever chatted while I did housekeeping. Sam went out for his morning run again today, so I’m going to tidy up before he gets back.

And hopefully avoid another awkward run-in outside the steaming bathroom.

I use my duplicate key to unlock his room and step inside. It looks tidy. Clean. It will only take a couple minutes to run through my tasks. “Keep an eye out for paper,” I say.

She knows this, of course. I love to collect paper to use in my scrapbooks. Occasionally lace and other pieces. It’s part of building a legacy, pulling pieces of the past together.

I give it the once-over with the Dyson before I make the bed. A flush rises in my cheeks as I imagine his body sliding between the cool sheets. The memory of this morning haunts me. Water dripped down his muscled chest. A towel was wrapped around lean hips. I can’t deny that I was attracted to him. He’s rugged and strong. And mysterious.

I shouldn’t like a man who’s mysterious.

When he pulled me into his arms, I couldn’t stop my thighs from squeezing together. It’s a base reaction. Unstoppable. I’ve never had sex with one of my guests. I’ve never wanted to, but I’m thinking of it now. Sam certainly has captured my attention. I’m not sure that’s a good thing since I don’t know anything about him.

I turn down the coverlet. As I do, I bump the duffel bag. It’s sitting on the chair at the foot of the bed. My elbow hits something hard. It could be any number of things. A book. A laptop. Lots of things are hard, but suspicion tightens my throat.

My guests deserve privacy.

No, I’ve never once encroached on anyone’s luggage, or their personal belongings, but there’s something off about Sam. And deep down, even though I’ve tried to bury it deep, that niggling feeling continues to plague me. I just can’t force it down.