Snowbound

draped becomingly, giving her a waifish look but for the

swell of breasts.

“I’m going to go borrow something, too,” Fiona

declared. “And then take a bath. Don’t let Willow or

Erin beat me to it if they appear.”

“We won’t.”

She’d barely reached the first floor when John Fallon

materialized in front of her.

“Oh! You scared me. I didn’t see you.”

“I was adding wood to the fire.”

Their host was even better looking in the light of day.

He’d shaved and wore a heavy, cream-colored, Irish

knit sweater over jeans. His dark hair, brushed back

from his face, was just long enough to curl over the

collar of the sweater.

“Thank you for washing our clothes.”

He nodded. “I set some more out in the kitchen, if

you want to borrow something. Once everyone’s up, I’ll

run another load.”

“Are we leaving you anything to wear?”

“Enough.”

Was he always so closemouthed, or was it just Fiona

who brought it out in him? Weren’t innkeepers supposed to brim with bonhomie?

“Um…I think I’ll go pick something out.” She

started toward the kitchen.

He followed. “Breakfast?”

“I’m going to take a bath first, before the kids use up

all the hot water.”

“The lodge has several water heaters. It’s not good

for business to make guests take cold baths.”

“No, I suppose not. I should warn you, though, that

unless they’re reined in, my group may challenge

your capacity. Have you ever had a lodgeful of teenagers before?”

He seemed to shake himself. Or had he shuddered?

“Yes.”

“They shower a lot. They’re awfully conscious of

how they look.” And smell.

“I remember.”

She sniffed. “Did you bake that bread fresh this

morning?”

“Figured we’d need it.”

“Did you ever go to bed?”

His big shoulders moved. “I get up early.”

She opened her mouth.

“No more thanks.” Was that a trace of humor in his

eyes? Or was she imagining it?

Like the living area with its enormous, river-rock

fireplace, the kitchen was vast, the cabinets rustic, the

floor slate. There was plenty of room in the middle for

a table that would seat at least twenty.

Almost at random, she chose a red plaid flannel shirt

from the neat piles on the table. “If you’ll excuse me…?”

He stepped aside.

Clutching the shirt, she hurried upstairs. Ugh. Nothing like letting a man you’d barely met see you first thing in the morning.

Willow had joined the others, and called after her, “I

want a bath, too!”

“I had dibs on it.”

She locked the door and started water cascading into

the tub before she noticed a cut-glass bowl of bath beads

on an antique wood commode situated perfectly to hold

a glass of wine, say, or candles.

The tub was definitely big enough for two.

She dropped a white bead in, and soon the scent of

gardenias filled the steamy air.

She ached as if she’d competed in a triathalon yesterday. Sinking into the hot water was heavenly. The foot of the tub was slanted, and she barely held her

chin above water. She actually floated, and gave a

moan of pleasure. Someday, she, too, would have a

bathtub like this.

If the water hadn’t cooled, she might never have

been able to make herself get out. That, and the realization that her stomach was rumbling. She’d barely had a bite or two last night, and the hamburger she’d eaten

at three-thirty or so yesterday afternoon seemed like an

awfully long time ago.

Her bra would do for another day or two, but she

added her panties to the pile in the corner and slipped

on the jeans. She would offer to do the wash; somehow,

the idea of the handsome, scarred stranger downstairs

plucking her dirty panties from the pile and dropping

them in the machine was too much for her.

The flannel shirt, well-worn, hung to midthigh and

she had to roll the sleeves four or five times. Fiona dried

and brushed her hair, leaving it loose around her face,

then hung her towel on a rack and left the bathroom.

The sound of running water came from behind the