Behind Closed Doors (Rochester Trilogy 3.50)

“I did,” he agrees. “Made it easier to stay out of bed.”

With me. He wanted to go back to bed with me. I wanted that, too. If he picked me up in his arms and took me inside right now, I don’t think I’d disagree. Honestly? I wouldn’t even need to go inside.

I take a long, slow breath and let it out. He’s attractive, that’s all. It’s a crush. I like the sound of his voice. It doesn’t mean my emotions are getting the better of me. It’ll be best if I just live in the moment with him. And this moment is about sandwiches, not sex.

“A BLT.” I hold up the first one. “I also have pulled pork and grilled chicken.”

“Which one’s your favorite?”

“The chicken is really good.”

“The BLT, then.”

I have cans of sparkling water and buttery crackers and purple grapes. Sam seems surprised with everything I pull out of the basket. A little thrilled, like no one has ever made a picnic for him.

It feels good to be the one to do it. Good, and… sad. I’m sad that he hates his work. That he feels like it turned him into a person he doesn’t know. That nobody ever packed a picnic for him until today.

And sad that he’s not the kind of man who could stay with me, even if he wanted to. A CIA agent would never have a future in Eben Cape.

But if he did, this is what it could look like. Picnics on the beach. Waking up in the morning together. Talking about the wind, and the trees, and the sand. A ship goes by out in the distance. Sam’s eyes track it while he eats his sandwich.

“What do you work on in that little room?” I’m surprised to feel relief at the question. At least we won’t have to pretend he wasn’t in there. That would be as hard as pretending last night didn’t happen. “I saw old photos. They didn’t seem to be from your family.”

“They weren’t. I make scrapbooks for people in my spare time.”

He stares out at the ocean, thinking. “They don’t want to do that for themselves?”

“Some people probably do. But other people… I don’t know. They don’t have the time to create the books, or they’re afraid it might not turn out.”

Sam meets my eyes, and it sends heat through my body. He’s a cold man. Dangerous. Scary. But when he looks at me like this, all I can feel is the safe cocoon of his arms. “It seems like you’d have plenty of visitors at a place like this.”

“Oh, I do. Summer especially. I have more time in the off-season, but I like to keep a steady cash flow, and—” It just seems worthless to keep pretending with him. We are pretending. I know that. He’s pretending not to be dangerous, and I’m pretending I have no feelings about him. “The truth is, it’s not about the money. I love doing it.”

“Rooting through other people’s memories?” He gives me a rueful smile.

“They send them to me in the hopes I’ll be able to make something beautiful. Scrapbooks like that—they’re not meant to end up in secondhand stores. They’re for families to pass down over the years. I’m glad to have a glimpse into what that looks like.”

“Do you have one for yourself?”

I think about this question every time I start on a new project. Every time I send one off in the mail with certified tracking so it won’t get lost on the way back home. I don’t know what I’d put in a scrapbook. I barely have anything from my childhood. No newspaper clippings. No photos. Most of the families I make the books for have mementos from holidays. They’re usually pictures taken with a blinding flash from a makeshift tripod, people crowded in front of the camera.

“Maybe I’m one of those people who’s afraid to screw it up.” I smile at him to make it seem true. I don’t know if Sam believes me. “Someday I’ll make one.”

“I’d have thought you’d do your own for practice.”

“I’ve done a couple for the inn over the years. Sometimes guests give me copies of their pictures.”

“If you made one for yourself, what would you put in there?”

I lift two brownies wrapped in a kitchen towel out of the basket and give one to Sam. I don’t want to admit out loud that I don’t have enough for a scrapbook. In all my life, I’ve never had enough for a full book. But I can imagine, can’t I? This picnic is an imaginary version of a life we could have.

“I’d put a photo of the first house I remember living in.” Before those men came to hurt my father. Before my mother and I ran. “My parents were proud of it, I think. A photo of them standing outside. Some of my work from school. I was always proud of my handwriting. I’d definitely want quite a few items from the inn. The document from when I registered it as my own business in Eben Cape. I think I have the first dollar I accepted in cash somewhere.”