What had Frank and Beverly told Juliet about him? Did she know he’d spent some time living on the streets? Even now, he wasn’t exactly high-class. He worked part-time, volunteered the rest of the week, and lived in a studio apartment above a greasy pizza joint. Most of his belongings smelled like pepperoni and stale garlic bread. Was she averse to associate with someone of his lowly social status? The lyrics to one ofAladdin’s opening songs echoed in his mind, particularly the part about riffraff and street rats.
“Juliet is a novelist,” Beverly said proudly.
Well, that explained the Proust bumper sticker. From the looks of her expensive outfit, she did quite well for herself, too. “Nice. Anything I’ve read?”
“No.” Juliet’s gaze briefly flitted to his face, then back to the floor.
She probably figured he was too uncultured to read. He smiled to himself, thinking about the worn copies ofWhite FangandWest-Running Brookin his duffel bag. Or maybe she wrote romance and made an assumption about his reading preferences based on his gender. “What genre do you write? Contemporary? Regency? Romantasy? Amish?” He rattled off some of theromance subgenres he knew, adding, “Billionaire?” Yeah, that seemed like her vibe.
Her dark doelike eyes narrowed. “Literary fiction, actually.”
Shoot. That should’ve been his first guess. Now he’d offended her by jumping to his own hasty conclusions.Way to go, Nate.“Cool. I like the occasional lit fic. I recently read and enjoyedRemarkably Bright Creatures,” he offered, hoping to find some common ground. “I was pleasantly surprised because magical realism isn’t usually my jam.” Although an excellent book, he could’ve done without the coarse language sprinkled throughout. He’d heard more than enough in the military, and preferred to avoid it whenever possible. With contemporary novels, he didn’t always know what to expect. One reason he often stuck to the classics.
Her frown lines softened. “I enjoyed that one, as well.” She tilted her head, studying him like some oddity she discovered in a novelty shop.
He stared back, trying not to fixate on how attractive he found her impossibly long eyelashes and her wavy brown hair with streaks of caramel woven throughout.
“You’re a soldier?”
“Yes, ma’am. Two tours in Iraq.”
“What was that like?”
“Hot.”
The frown lines on her forehead returned, as if she’d anticipated a juicier response. The only thing he liked less than snobbery was a morbid fascination with war. He’d met countless people who wanted to hear all the gory details without ever leaving the comfort of their cushy recliner.
“Are you hungry?” Beverly quickly redirected the conversation. “There’s leftover roast beef in the fridge. I could whip you up a plate. And there’s fresh coffee and gingerbread cookies.”
“Coffee would be nice. Thanks.” He was starving, but didn’t want to impose too much right out of the gate. These people had invited him into their home for a week, and he hoped to find ways to be a blessing, not a burden.
“How do you take it?” Beverly asked.
“Black, please.”
Frank grunted at his response, and it soundly awfully close to a grunt of approval.
“Wonderful. I’ll put these beautiful flowers in some water, then I’ll be back with coffee and cookies in a jiffy. Make yourself comfortable.” She gestured toward the cozy seating arrangement around the fireplace—a well-worn, plaid couch, matching love seat, and twin armchairs.
“Thanks. Where should I…” He trailed off, tapping a hand to his duffel bag to finish his question.
“Oh! Silly me. You’ll want to settle in first.” Beverly turned to Juliet. “Be a dear and show Nate to the guest room.”
Juliet’s eyes widened, and for a second, he thought she might refuse.
“Of course.” She offered him a stiff smile, then led him down the hall.
The first door they passed revealed an office lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases overflowing with old leather-bound books and thick hardbacks. It took all of Nate’s self-control not to ditch the tour right then and there in favor of perusing the well-stocked shelves.
They passed the hall bath next. “I guess we’ll be sharing this bathroom,” Juliet said and quickly showed him where Beverly kept the soaps and towels.
“And this is your room.” She opened the door to a small bedroom painted a soothing sage-green color. A large bay window with a built-in seat overlooked a neighboring forest of mature pines and cedar trees. The bed appeared slightly smallerthan a queen—maybe a full?—and was piled high with the softest-looking quilts. He didn’t even care that the pattern on the topmost quilt featured pink and white roses. If he wasn’t so eager to soak up all things Christmas, he’d be tempted to stay in bed the entire week. He might actually get some sleep in a setup that luxurious.
He set his bag on the antique steamer trunk at the foot of the bed, but a nagging suspicion tugged on the back of his mind. “How many guest rooms do they have?” If he had to guess, the farmhouse looked like a three-bedroom, two-bath floor plan.
“Just one.”
That’s what he thought. He cast a sideways glance at the enticing mound of blankets.Keep your mouth shut, Nate.Those plump pillows have your name written all over them.He wanted to take his own advice but couldn’t curb his chivalrous impulse. “Then you should have it.”
