Behind Closed Doors (Rochester Trilogy 3.50)

That’s what I’ve told myself for years. It’s bullshit. I feel things looking into Marjorie’s eyes. It’s bullshit for her, too. Her wounds are there in her heart. She’s built this inn as a guard for them, and she’s been doing a damn good job.

“I wish I felt less sometimes. You know…” Another thoughtful sigh. “I’ve made a home here, but it’s not the same. Nobody ever stays for long. Maybe that’s just how life is.”

The promise is on my lips. I won’t leave.

But of course I will.

That’s the job.

That’s my life.

It’s not going to happen this minute, though. Not in the next hour. Not even today. Fuck it. I’m staying with her at least for today. I let myself indulge in the fantasy. I normally don’t do that. Imagination can keep you alive through a dark night, but this isn’t about imagination. It’s about being in this moment.

I fold my arms around the beautiful innkeeper in my bed. “Tell me more.”

“There’s nothing else. I have a boring life. I walk on the beach. I make scrapbooks. I go antiquing with my friends. That’s all I do. That, and the inn.”

“What do you look for in those shops?”

“I like the little things.” Her eyes brighten. “The things people saved for a long time. Pretty things for the shelf. Those tell you exactly what they loved. That’s what I look for in antique shops. What about you?”

“I’ve never been,” I tell her. I’ve never thought for a second about what I might like to keep with me. It’s always a nondescript duffel bag that belongs to a man who doesn’t exist.

“You should go,” she says. I’d go with her. I’d go to a million antique shops and watch her face light up. “You can see so many ideas there. So many ways people made their houses into homes.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that.” Nothing in my life would generate a family heirloom or an antique.”

“You can learn.” Marjorie smiles. “I did.”

Chapter Nine

Marjorie

It’s no use pretending that Sam is an ordinary guest. We slept together. It was good. More than good. It makes me blush to think about it. Letting a man have sex with me is so far outside the norm that my skin hums even after he climbs out of bed.

Sam’s still in the shower when I’m finished with mine. I dry my hair, dress for the day, and go down to the kitchen.

Making him breakfast like usual feels disingenuous, almost. What happened between us was special. I don’t want him to think it was nothing. At the same time, I don’t want him to think it was everything.

We both need some fresh air. That’s what I know. And—I recognized the hurt in Sam’s voice when he spoke about his work, and even about the antique shop. Not knowing anything about making a home.

What do people with homes do? They make plans for the day. They go out by the beach. They’re comfortable.

So I get out my big picnic basket from the pantry and open it up. I’m folding a blanket over the food I’ve gathered when Sam appears in the doorway. “Do you have a date?” he asks.

“We’re having a picnic,” I announce. “It’s late enough for it to be lunch, I suppose.” My face heats with how good he looks. Fitted, nondescript clothes, but the man—I could never forget the man, no matter how plainly he dressed. His body was over mine in bed last night. His hands on my skin. His mouth on my mouth. He tasted so good he’ll follow me into my dreams. “You might want a coat. It’s a little chilly out.”

Sam returns with his jacket and mine. He helps me into mine before he puts on his own, then takes the handle of the basket in one large hand and carries it out toward the shore.

We go some distance down the shore to a rocky cove. Other people have been here before. There are ashes from old fires. I spread the picnic blanket near the cove. Sam walks slowly down the beach, gathering branches, and I unpack the basket.

He’s not gone long. A few minutes at most. It takes him even less time to start a fire.

“How did you do that? It’s so windy.” The wind keeps sending my hair flying into my face. I keep pushing it back, again and again.

Sam looks at me over the new flames flickering beneath his hands. “I’m good with wood.”

“You’re good with other things, too.” He grins, and that makes my face hotter than any fire. “But—come eat. I packed a lot of food.”

He takes a seat next to me on the picnic blanket. “Sandwiches?”

“Yes. I have three different kinds, depending on what you like.”

“You had time to make three kinds of sandwiches?”

“You were busy.” In the shower. Thinking of him naked makes me forget the wind. Forget the chill. Forget everything but the feeling of him moving over me in the bed. “Lots of guests have a more relaxed schedule when they’re getting ready. I’m not saying—” I laugh out loud. “I’m just saying, you must have needed the hot water.”