Snowbound

Fiona pushed him away. “You’d better go.”

“They’ll survive if they can’t find me for an hour,”

he growled.

“Isn’t there some kind of innkeeper’s oath? ‘My

guests’ comfort shall come first’?”

He gave her a sardonic look as she retreated. “I didn’t

sign it. Oh, crap.” He yanked open the door. “Yeah?”

Fiona didn’t listen to the exchange beyond to gather

that somebody was looking for snowshoes. John left,

closing the door behind him, and she sank down on the

bed, feeling shaky. Wow. She’d forgotten exactly what

happened when he touched her. Forget sex as a pleasant

recreation, a nice bonding with a man she was trying to

convince herself she was falling in love with. This

was…incendiary. Primal. She felt as if, in those brief

moments, he had somehow stripped her of all the small

pretences that made up the person she presented in public.

Did John feel anywhere near as profoundly affected?

she wondered. The stereotype held that sex was simpler

for men, more physical and less emotional. But then, did

a man who wasn’t emotionally involved kiss a woman

as if he didn’t give a damn if he ever drew another breath?

Fiona didn’t know. Her other relationships had been

too…well, tepid. Maybe it was fortunate she and John

had been interrupted just then, though; mightn’t it be a

good thing if they had a chance to talk before they fell

into bed? Especially given all her doubts about whether

he was willing to share more than the moment with

her?

It might have been smart if she’d taken the room at

the top of the stairs and made sure their relationship had

some substance beyond the physical before she agreed

to share his bed.

Too late. And anyway… Fiona had a suspicion that

if John came back right now and kissed her, she’d forget

how to talk, never mind that she’d actually wanted to in

the first place.

She pressed a hand to her chest to quell the butterflies. Why the cowardice now? She’d come up here to get to know John. Given the amazing chemistry between them, she refused to regret her decision to make love with him. But beyond that… Well, she’d see. When

she’d been here with the kids, she and John couldn’t find

enough time alone to really talk. Now, circumstances

were different. They’d have a chance to get to know

each other. Yes, he was close-mouthed, but he was the

one who’d invited her. That meant something, right?

In the meantime, she’d go out and chat with guests.

Find out what she could do to help with dinner. Maybe

there was even a load of laundry ready to go in. Lord

knew, she was an expert on operating his washer and

dryer.

Fiona got her hairbrush out of her purse, gave herself

a brief inspection in his bathroom mirror and tidied

herself, then went out to the kitchen.

Only the solitary reader remained, a man in his

fifties at her best guess who didn’t seem interested in

who she was, but said aloud, “I wonder if any of those

cookies are left.”

She looked in the pantry and found two different

types. “Chocolate chip or raisin oatmeal?” she called.

There was a pause. “I didn’t know there were any

raisin oatmeal. Maybe one of each.”

She brought out a small plate with a selection, then

heated water for a cup of tea for herself. She thought of

finding herself something to read, but was content just to

sit and sip. She loved this huge, open kitchen with knotty

pine cabinets, plank floors, a sink big enough to take a bath

in and old-fashioned, small-paned windows that looked

out at the wintry forest. It smelled of good things, all

probably baked that morning before guests arose: bread,

cookies, perhaps pie. Fiona’s only companion was

peaceful, contributing no more than the whisper of turned

pages and a pleased murmur when he took a bite of cookie.

When John eventually returned, his brows were

drawn together and impatience made his stride quick.

His color was heightened from the cold, which accompanied him with a gust. When he saw her, he checked.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be gone so long.”

“That’s okay.” She smiled at him. “I made myself at