Chapter Seventeen
He had Sunday off, and Miles intended to do little to nothing with it. No pressing work, no meetings—even family—no crises, small or large, on the horizon.
A handful of household chores, sure, but he could enjoy them when he didn’t need to squeeze them in.
He did his version of sleeping in, so rolled out of bed before nine, let the dog out. Then, because he’d had the foresight to install a coffee station in his closet, he enjoyed his first Sunday morning cup on the bedroom terrace.
As usual Howl patrolled the perimeter of the backyard, defending against any possible invaders. Sometimes he wondered what went on in the dog’s mind, and usually decided not a whole lot.
Trooping down to the basement and his home gym, he put in a solid hour, felt righteous.
He grabbed a shower, a long one. Sunday morning indulgence. After tossing a load of laundry in, he fed the dog, scrambled some eggs, toasted a bagel. With a second cup of coffee, he sat out on the back patio and read the paper on his tablet while enjoying breakfast in the summer sunshine.
And because of the sunshine, he hung the laundry out to dry.
He put fresh sheets on the bed, hung fresh towels in the bath, dealt with the dishes, and considered his indoor tasks complete.
Because the day called for it, he puttered around the gardens. They didn’t require more than the puttering, as the grounds crew from the resort would tend to them if and when he didn’t have time.
Still, he knew how to tend, as part of his training had been a summer working with the grounds crew.
Howl lay on the grass in the sun and watched.
He worked in the quiet because he prized the quiet when he could get it. Just the chirp of birds—which reminded him to fill the feeders—the occasional mutter from the dog, the hum of bees doing their work.
Deliberately, as he did every full Sunday off, he’d left his phone inside on the charger. If something vital cropped up, someone would come get him. Otherwise, he was, for one day, incommunicado.
As an experiment, he dug out a tennis ball, showed it to Howl. Then tossed it. And, as always, Howl sat, watched the ball fly, land, then looked at Miles as if to say: What? Go get it yourself.
“What kind of dog are you?”
Howl’s grumbles and mutters equaled a canine shrug.
Miles got the ball himself, stuck it back in the garden shed.
By two, laundry dry, folded, put away, sun tea chilling, all chores stood complete. Now the day stretched ahead, tempted him to check his phone. He wouldn’t, a matter of discipline, but it tempted him.
He could sit on the front porch and read a book. He could put on his boots and go for a hike. He’d have to take the dog because it seemed wrong not to.
A hike, then the book made sense, but if he reversed it, he could swing into town, pick up something for dinner, spare himself the cooking.
Whatever he did, it had to be outside, as he considered it a crime to waste a perfect summer Sunday afternoon lazing around indoors.
Besides, despite Morgan’s ESPN comment, he didn’t watch much TV, sports or otherwise.
Thinking of the offhand comment made him think of her, which he’d studiously avoided doing all morning.
He really had no business thinking of her, at least not beyond the bar manager. But he found her so damn interesting. No question she excelled at her work—and as Nell had concluded during the last family meeting, they were lucky to have someone who mixed creative and organized in equal parts.
He didn’t like worrying about her but couldn’t seem to stop. The way she’d gone from raging fury to helpless panic when she’d grabbed that guest stayed imprinted on his mind.
He’d admired the fury; sympathized with the panic.
She’d lost everything but had dug down deep to start again.
He admired that, too. And more, respected it.
She had dreams, goals, hopes, he thought as he picked up the book he’d barely started. How many of those had Rozwell taken?
Someone wanted to kill her, and wouldn’t let her forget it. Yet she got up every day. She went to work, did her job, lived her life.
Or the one she’d started to make.
The combination of vulnerable and tough just fascinated him.
He could tell himself that fascination had nothing to do with her looks, but he didn’t like to lie to himself. Those looks, he thought, the way she lit up when she laughed, the way she moved behind the bar—like it was a freaking dance floor. And those eyes, simmering green and somehow always alert.
And now, Jesus, he’d stop thinking about her. Metaphorically put her with his phone on the charger and go read his book.
When he started toward the front door, Howl howled. He could come out, of course, and Miles would leave the door open so he could come and go. But since he didn’t carry the leash, the dog knew damn well he couldn’t go beyond the front porch.
The road was a ways off, but still.
“Deal with it,” Miles said, and opened the door.
And there she stood, like he’d conjured her up just by thinking about her for only a few minutes.
She wore a red T-shirt and faded denim shorts, and those long, long legs damn near killed him. In her hands she held some sort of container, and even with her sunglasses, he could see the awe in them as she looked up.
“You have turrets,” she said, and the awe spread.
“The house does.”
“Two turrets,” she said again, then Howl walked onto the porch. “And a dog!”
Howl muttered, grumbled, let out a high trio of whines as he wagged from head to toe.
“Turrets and a talking dog!”
Miles felt the dog dancing in place beside him. He started to tell the dog to sit, then Howl broke a primary rule.
He raced off the porch and straight at Morgan.
Rather than alarm, she showed only delight, shifting the container under one arm so she could crouch down and greet him.
He licked, he rubbed, he rolled over on his back for a belly rub, making a constant series of happy noises.
Not even for his father, Miles thought, did the dog make such an ass of himself. But then, Morgan laughed, rubbed, cooed, nuzzled.
“Oh, what a good boy. What a very good boy! Aren’t you handsome? What’s your name? What’s his name?”
“Howl. He—”
To illustrate why, Howl howled and made Morgan laugh.
“He’s not supposed to go off the porch without a leash.”
“Oh, but— Oh, the road. Good policy. Come on, Howl, we don’t want you to get in trouble. Sorry, my fault.”
She straightened on those damn flamingo legs, and the dog pranced—he never pranced—beside her on the way to the porch.
“And sorry,” she continued. “I got distracted, because turrets. I was just going to leave these on the porch, then text you. I didn’t mean to interrupt your day off.”
“Leave what?”
“I baked you cookies.” She held the container out to him.
“You…” If he’d been thrown off before, now he was completely floored. “Baked me cookies.”
“To thank you for Friday night. I’ll admit it was my mother’s idea, and they’re good cookies mostly because she supervised every step. But the thank-you’s sincere.”
He took the container, opened it, then sampled a cookie while she turned the dog into a puddle by kissing his nose.
“They are good cookies.” When Howl spared him a glance, Miles shook his head. “Not yours.”
“No chocolate chips for you.” Morgan stroked Howl’s ears. “They’re not good for you. What is he?”
“A dog.”
“I meant what kind of dog.”
“Nobody knows. Best guess is a sheepdog got busy with a beagle.”
“Well, that’s a combo. I’m trying to be sorry I ended up interrupting your day off, but otherwise I wouldn’t have met Howl. And…”
Now she glanced up, and he already knew he’d have a harder time saying no to those eyes than Howl’s.
“Do you have five minutes?”
“Probably.”
“If I could just … could I see inside the one turret? Just a peek inside one of them.”
“Probably,” he repeated. “Why?”
“I’ve never been inside a turret. I have a thing for houses, and yours is a beautiful Victorian. The turrets just punch it up another level.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, thanks. Five minutes, I swear, then I’m out of your hair. And you have cookies.”
He gestured her in.
“Oh, it really is beautiful. Just … You kept the interior walls curved at the base of the turret for the sitting room or reading room or morning room. Whatever-you-want-it-to-be room. The woodwork! You have ceiling medallions. Oh, the floors—are they original?”
“Yeah.”
He thought she looked at the sitting room off the foyer as if he’d just opened Aladdin’s cave for her.
“Gorgeous, they’re just gorgeous. And the windows! And, sorry, I’m eating up my first minute. I love houses. Old houses especially. New construction’s just so, well, new. You can really feel the history in here. I mean, look at the staircase!”
She walked over, the dog trailing her adoringly, to stroke the newel post.
“You get to use it if you want a look inside the rest of the turret.”
“And I really do. It’s so elegant, but not formal or fussy. Feels like a home,” she said as she climbed the stairs with her fingers brushing the rail. “Which it is. It’s yours.”
“Now it is.”
As he led the way along the second floor, he thought how completely odd it was, giving her a kind of house tour while he carried a container of homemade cookies.
She let out a sound sort of between a moan and a sigh when she stepped into his office. He ordered himself not to find that sound sexual.
He failed.
“Oh yes! It’s perfect. It’s just perfect. The curved walls, the view out the tall windows—all that wonderful natural light just pouring in. You have your desk facing the door because who could get any work done with that view?
“Curved shelves on curved walls, and the fireplace, the carving on the surround, the metalwork. It’s absolutely magical. Then you have your high-tech computer on the handsome antique desk, chocolate-brown leather chairs. Respecting the history of the house while getting today’s work done.”
She gave him a friendly punch on the biceps. “Kudos. Major ones.”
Then she bent to rub the delirious Howl again, and sent some gray fur floating into the air. “Do you curl up and sleep on a chair while Daddy works?”
“No to the chair, and a big no to Daddy. He’s a dog. I’m not.”
“Aw.” But she smiled. “Thanks, big-time, for indulging me.”
“You don’t want to see the rest of it?”
“I’m dying to. I don’t see how it can be more perfect than your office setup, but I’d really love to see.”
She followed him out.
“It’s a big house.”
“I like space.”
“Me, too. My house in Maryland was pretty small, but I was going to open it up some. Then, big plans, after I had my own super-successful bar, I’d add a second story. Bedroom level, and I’d have my office downstairs. Anyway…”
She trailed off when she stepped into the top story of the turret.
“And more perfect. It’s like a hideaway. Somewhere to stretch out on that sofa, or sit by the fire in the winter, sip some whiskey, and think long, deep thoughts. Or just stand at the window and look out at … everything.”
She sighed again, stroking the dog, who clung to her side. “Now I can cross standing in a turret off my list of things that must be done.”
“You have a list?”
“I live by lists. Lists and spreadsheets. I didn’t even know this one was on the list until I saw yours. Now it goes on and gets checked off in the same day. Pretty good deal for a couple batches of cookies.”
She turned away from the window where the sunlight streamed over her.
He wondered how she could look as if she belonged there.
“And now, as promised, I’ll get out of your way. Though it’s going to be hard to say goodbye to my new best friend.”
“You want him?”
“Stop that.” She flicked a finger on his arm as she walked by. “I bet you have one of those enormous attics with exposed beams just full of treasures.”
“You want to see that, too?”
“A promise is a promise, but I may find myself baking cookies again—which is harder than you’d think. My grandmother’s house has one. I go on attic hunts on my day off sometimes.”
“For what?”
“Treasures. You can get very creative living on a strict budget. I found this terrific old lamp up there a couple weeks ago. A new shade, some rewiring, and voilà.”
He thought of those long, slender fingers. “You rewired a lamp.”
“Google knows all, and for me, that was easier than the cookies. Added benefit, I’m now excused from making dinner on my days off—which had its hits and misses—and encouraged to rewire lamps or refinish an old table where I find them.”
“We probably have old lamps up there.”
“An attic staple. I really do appreciate it, Miles.”
On the main floor, she turned to smile at him again.
“I got cookies out of it.”
“Those are a thanks for knowing what I needed Friday night and making sure I got it even when I didn’t want it. So…” She started to turn to the door, turned back again. “I want to ask you a question, and want to say either answer is absolutely okay.”
“You want to see the basement?”
She laughed. “No—well, yes, but that’s not today’s question. I’d just like to take it completely out of the resort box, so just me is asking just you, if that’s all right.”
“How do I know if it’s all right until you ask the question?”
“Right. It’s a little awkward. The thing is, I’m pretty good at reading people. Well, with one major exception, but I’m pretty good at it. The new kid in school, in the neighborhood, on the playground learns to be. Or I did. So I’m asking if I’m just completely off on this, or if I’m reading there may be a thing, potentially a thing, here.”
She gestured to him, to herself.
“Out of the resort box,” she repeated quickly. “I know when someone higher up the chain’s putting that kind of pressure on, those kinds of moves. I quit a job in college over that. That’s not this, at all. And I don’t mean to add pressure or moves from my side. I wonder if I’m reading it right from your end of things. If you’re interested in me, outside the resort box.”
“We’re in the resort box, Morgan.”
“Right. Yes. Okay then. So thanks for the turret tour and the dog fix. Enjoy the cookies.”
He waited until she’d opened the door, told himself to wait until she was out of it. But he didn’t.
“You’re not reading it wrong.”
She shut the door, leaned back against it. “Thank God. Okay, now it’s a two-part question. Can we agree that if the potential thing becomes a thing, my job has nothing to do with it? I love my job, Miles, and—still reading—it’s clear you love yours. This isn’t about that, and I realize it’s trickier for you, in your position, than it is for me, in mine.”
“Maybe I’d get tired of you and fire you.”
“First, Nell’s my direct supervisor, and second, and more to the point, you wouldn’t because you’re not made that way. I could get pissed off, file a sexual harassment claim.”
“First, I’ve got a killer lawyer—he’s my father—and no one would believe you anyway. Second, and more to the point, you wouldn’t because you’re not made that way. I can read people, too.”
“No, I wouldn’t. We could spell it all out, put it in writing. How we entered into this thing due to mutual attraction and interest without pressure or coercion from either side. Your father could draw it up. Howl could witness it.”
“It’s good you added that so I know you’re bullshitting. And the thing’s called sex, Morgan. If we think we’re going to have it, we should be able to say it.”
“If the sex doesn’t work out, I still promise not to quit, or hold it against you.”
“I can promise not to fire you, or hold it against you. Even though if it doesn’t work out, it’ll be your fault. I’m good at it.”
“Now you’re bullshitting, but the sad fact is, I’m way out of practice—which accounts for a lot of the awkwardness of this conversation. You should initially grade on a curve.”
He didn’t know what to make of her, or this, but knew the moment mattered.
“Are you used to men grading you in bed?”
“The memory dims. It’s been a few years.”
“Did you say ‘years’?”
Her shoulders hunched; her hands slid into the pockets of her tiny shorts. “Don’t rub it in.”
He held up a finger, then walked to a table to set down the container of cookies. “I’m going to prolong this ridiculous conversation, which I find strangely arousing, and ask why. I understand the last year, but you said ‘a few.’”
“I was busy and focused on other things.”
“I keep busy and focused, and still.”
“I worked two jobs.” When he said nothing, she sighed, shrugged. “All right, on top of that—and I know this is going to feed your ego—there wasn’t anybody who flipped the switch so I wanted to make the time to be with them. Until now. It’ll be fine if this turns out to be a one-off, or short-term, or—”
“I wish you’d shut up now.”
“I’d be really happy to shut up now. I should go.” She opened the door. Shut it again. Then moved straight to him, into him, fixed her mouth on his.
For someone who claimed to be out of practice, she had skills.
Dimly, he heard the dog’s tail thumping on the floor as Morgan wrapped around him. He couldn’t claim he found it easy, but he let her take the lead. This time.
Drawing him in, sparking fire in his blood. Then easing back again.
“I have something more to say.”
“Do you always talk this much?” he wondered. “I think I’d’ve noticed.”
“I think, in this case, we could dispense with the whole ritual of dating. Like drinks, dinner, movies, live theater, salsa dancing. Whatever’s your usual pattern.”
“I don’t have a pattern.”
“If you did, we could ditch it, and I could ditch mine—the whole taking-it-slow, give-it-a-few-weeks thing I’ve always run on—and jump straight to the sex.”
His Sunday off shot like a bullet to the top of the best-of list.
“You’re not going to buy me dinner first?”
“I’ll owe you,” she said, and took his mouth again.
He circled her out of the foyer, into the living room because, damn it, she’d lit this fire in him, and the bedroom was too far away.
As he circled, he tugged off her shirt, tossed it aside.
“Don’t judge me on the underwear.” Breathless, she dragged at his shirt. “I wasn’t planning on sex when I put it on this morning.”
“Let’s just get it out of sight then.” One-handed, he flipped open the back hook of her bra, made her tremble.
“You are good at this.”
“Quiet.” He tumbled her onto the sofa. “I like the quiet.”
She couldn’t quite manage silence, not with what he did to her body with his hands, his mouth. To be touched again, to feel a man’s weight on top of her, to have his mouth just take hers over. She felt those shocks of pleasure in every cell of her body.
And the feel of him under her hands, warm flesh, hard muscle, rocked her already shuddering system. His mouth was everything she’d imagined when she’d let herself imagine. Hot and masterful. Her heart thudded under that mouth as it roamed and possessed.
With a bare brush of his fingers, he shot her to peak.
It ripped through her, tearing her breath, shattering her mind, electrifying her body. Giving her no time to recover, he drove her up again, smothered her cries with his mouth while her body arched under his.
Then he was inside her, deep, holding, holding until her hips began to pump, until the world went mad.
He watched her, those tiger eyes on hers, as she wrapped her legs around him, urged him to thrust, faster and deeper.
As he watched, he saw the pleasure on her face, the shock of it in her eyes. She had more, and it cost him to give more rather than take. But he gave, and gave, while her body rose and fell with him. He gave until she cried out again, until her hand reached back to grip the arm of the couch as if to keep herself from flying.
He gave until she went limp and lax and liquid under him. Then he took his fill.
She could have drifted on the echoes of pleasure for hours, maybe days. Weeks didn’t seem out of the question. She let herself focus on the drift, and the pleasure, how it felt to have his heart racing against hers. She could add in satisfaction, as his body lay as lax and limp as hers now.
Out of practice, maybe, but she’d gotten the job done.
Since they were right there, she ran her hands over the muscles of his back.
“These don’t really show under your invisible suit.”
He didn’t stir. “I have an invisible suit?”
“You wear it every day. Well, not right now, but otherwise.”
“What does it look like?”
“Charcoal gray, single-breasted, in that fine Italian wool. Crisp white cotton shirt, steel-blue silk tie, single Windsor, black cap-toe oxfords. Italian, of course.”
“That’s very specific.”
“If I had a million dollars, I’d bet you you’ve got something damn close to it in your closet. It looks good on you.”
“Why is it invisible?”
“You don’t need anybody to see it to know you’re in charge. It just is. But now, we’re naked, and it’s really nice.”
He levered up to study her. “Maybe sex dimmed your vision and I’m still wearing it.”
She just smiled. “Nope. Naked. I got you naked. It was my idea, and I want full credit.”
“It was more of a concept than an idea, and I got you naked first. But then, I didn’t have a lot to deal with, since you were wearing those really tiny shorts.”
“I was going to sand and paint this little bench after I dropped off the cookies, so … Oh shit! I have to text my ladies. I said I’d be right back.”
“Your ladies.”
“Mom and Gram. My phone’s in the car. I really meant to just put the cookies on the porch. Then there was a turret and the dog and the sex. I need my phone.”
“You’re naked,” he reminded her. “We’re pretty private here, but you might not want to go out to your car naked.”
“I’ll get dressed first.”
“Okay.” He lowered his head, pressed his lips to the side of her neck. “You could do that.”
“I will.” She closed her eyes, went back to drifting. “In just a minute.”
“Okay,” he said again, moved to her jaw.
“No. Wait. Damn it. I don’t want them to worry.”
When he shifted, she wiggled out from under him and started to grab up her clothes. “Is it better if I make something up—not lie, that’s not it. I can just say you gave me a tour of the house if that’s better.”
“Better for what?”
“If you don’t want them—people—to know we had sex on your couch. It’s fine if you don’t.”
“You think too much.”
“I do.” She pulled on her clothes while he watched. “I can’t stop. I had to fake meditate when I went to yoga with my ladies. But I bet everybody else is faking, too.”
“Way too much. Get your phone, tell your ladies you’ll be awhile.”
“I’ll be awhile?”
“You owe me dinner. We’ll figure that out after I get those tiny shorts off you again. As for the rest? Why the hell would I care if people know we’re involved? And more immediate, when you do get back home, you’re going to look like a woman who’s had sex, and odds are your ladies will clue in.”
He’d said “involved,” she realized. Not sex on the couch, or not only.
“Stop thinking,” he advised, and reached for his boxers. “Go get your phone. I vote we take this up to the bedroom.”
“I’d like to see your bedroom.”
“Great. We’ll do that.”
“I’ll get my phone. I said boxers,” she reminded him. “Howl’s only pretending to be asleep,” she added as she dashed for the door.
Miles glanced over to where the dog curled in front of the fireplace, one eye open.
“Mind your own business.”