Page 21 of Room for Us
Her voice carries the pleasant indifference of customer service. Like gravity, it tugs my feet back to the floor and to the door, which swings open under my hand.
Going by the sudden flaring of her eyes, she didn’t expect to see me face-to-face. She takes a half-step back, her mouth opening and closing. And unfortunately for me, she didn’t grow warts and a second chin since I last saw her. Instead, a few curls have come loose from her bun, framing her heart-shaped face. Her parted lips are lush, the bottom fuller than the top, and I can suddenly list a hundred things I want to do to that mouth.
Lust burns at the base of my spine. Primitive chemicals fire in my brain, sending blood rushing to my groin, urging me to seduce, take. Is this what Britt wanted from me? The elusive passion she referred to? It’s been a long time since I felt this kind of raw, razored need, and even longer since my body has nearly overruled my mind.
Say something, asshole. Gripping the doorframe, I clear my throat. “Yes, please. A large Americano. Thank you for offering. Again.”
She nods, eyes uncertain but otherwise the picture of professionalism. Unlike me. My gaze fixes on her throat, so smooth and soft-looking. I want bury my face in it. I want to bite it and savor her flavor.
“Anything else I can get for you?”
“Nope. Nothing I can think of.”
She glances behind me. “As a reminder, unless I see the Do Not Disturb tag, I’ll be here every day between ten and eleven to clean your room. Turn down service is available nightly as well—just let me know if you’d like it. The kitchen is open all day for snacks and self-serve lunch. Dinner is served between five and six. Help yourself to anything in the pantry or refrigerator, and please let me know if you’d like me to stock anything specific. And if you’d like to use the Jeep, I just ask that you give me a few hours’ notice and proof of insurance.” She smiles, big and fake. “If there’s any way I can make your stay more memorable, don’t hesitate to reach out.”
Stop staring. Stop it, idiot. You can’t treat women like vodka. It never works.
“Mr. Hart?” Her smile falls, eyebrows drawing together. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.”
No, I’m really not. I’m here to do one thing—write a book. Zoey Kemper’s allure is irrelevant. We have a business arrangement. And so far she’s done everything to uphold her end of the bargain. What’s going on in my head and body has nothing to do with her and everything to do with how fucked up I am, how much I crave a reason—any reason—to avoid doing what I came here to do.
Time for me to uphold my end of the arrangement, and thereby erase Ms. Kemper’s appeal.
There’s nothing quite as unsexy to me as a woman who, without fail or complaint, does what she’s told.
“Actually, Ms. Kemper, there are a few things I need. I clearly remember you saying there would be an espresso machine, so I’d appreciate it if you’d find one before tomorrow. And I’d like better sheets on the bed. At least 800 thread count. That’s all for now. Thank you.”
Feeling like a complete prick but knowing it’s the only choice I have, I close the door in her face. Better she hate me than see what I hide inside.
14
Once upon a time, there was a door. It was a beautiful door. Solid wood, thick and sturdy, with craftsmanship you don’t see much anymore. I loved this door—right up until it was closed in my face.
Now I want to chop it into pieces and burn it.
It wasn’t closed hard, mind you. More a firm period than an exclamation point. But the natural whorl of woodgrain a foot from my nose looks like a mocking eyeball. I’m certain that somewhere in the unseen world, my aunt wears a grimace.
“I don’t have a face to grimace with, dear. Though I have changed my mind. Tell him there’s a termite infestation and you have to tent the place tomorrow. Good riddance.”
I wish I could. God, I wish I could. Less than twenty-four hours in and my first—and possibly last—guest is causing me heartburn. It’d be one thing if he asked for a certain type of coffee. Say, espresso blend. But instead he wants me to buy a fucking espresso machine? Chris bought one for himself a few years ago. I remember him shopping for it, comparing features and prices. They aren’t cheap. And that means I can’t afford it.
My heart pounds with annoyance and embarrassment as I speed down the stairs. I have to figure out a way to meet his request. I don’t know if there’s even a place to buy an espresso machine in Sun River. I might have to make the drive to Hailey or even Twin Falls. I’ll also have to check my credit card balance. Ugh.
“Termites,” repeats my aunt.
“I can’t,” I mutter beneath my breath as I grab my purse and car keys. “If I do that, I might as well sell because there’s no coming back.”
“Hmmph. How can he afford to stay here in the first place? Rose House is too respectable for the likes of him. No matter how smart he sounds, he looks like a college dropout.”
“Hush,” I say, but my lips quirk. “But he does, you’re right.”
“I generally am.”
I delay my errands to fetch a large Americano from Beans & Books and bring it back. As I approach the Lavender Room, I spy the Do Not Disturb sign hanging on the knob with some relief. I’m still angry, insulted, and embarrassed from earlier, and if I saw him right now I might say something I’d regret.
There’s a piece of paper on the floor as well, torn from the complimentary pad in the room and folded in half. Depositing the espresso carefully outside the door, I pick up the note, half-expecting an apology.
