Identity

“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.”





Chapter Eighteen



His bedroom lived up to the rest of the house she’d seen, or so she judged after she actually had the opportunity to really look at it.

And really looking at it from the middle of the glorious four-poster only added to it. An elegant marble fireplace, French doors leading out to a terrace, a cozy sitting area, local art displayed on walls of rich, deep blue set a tone of relaxed indulgence.

And lying under him, she felt both relaxed and indulgent.

She imagined the lovely cedar chest at the foot of the bed held blankets and throws, and the double mahogany six-panel doors opened to his closet.

She’d still bet that imaginary million he had a suit in there very close to her vision.

She’d gotten a glimpse through the open door to the en suite and its big freestanding claw-foot tub. But only a glimpse, as he’d been dragging her clothes off as he pulled her into the bedroom.

“You’re thinking again.”

“Not really thinking. More admiring. This is a beautiful room. If the third-floor turret room’s a hideaway, this is a sanctuary. You don’t work in here.”

“Not if I can help it.”

“It’s a lot, what you do.” Absently, she toyed with his hair. “It makes my job easier.”

“How’s that?”

“Most guests who come into Après are happy. They’ve had a spa treatment, or taken a hike, had an adventure or a good meal. They’re just looking to continue the happy over a drink. The service shines, and that comes down from the top. The details shine, and ditto. It spreads out to the community when guests go into town, wander around the shops. Anytime I help out at Crafty Arts I see guests come in. And they rarely leave empty-handed.

“So it’s a lot, what you do.” Relaxed, so relaxed she realized if she closed her eyes she’d drop straight into sleep, she gave his back a last stroke. “I’ve been awhile. I should go.”

“You owe me dinner. I took a couple of steaks out of the freezer when you were out on your phone. I’ll grill them. You can handle the rest and we’ll call it even.”

“The rest? What’s the rest?”

“It’s steak on the grill, Morgan. You do something with potatoes.”

He wanted her to stay for dinner, and that was wonderful. But. “I really only know how to do two somethings with potatoes that don’t come frozen in a bag, and only one thing I’ve done more than once. And I usually have supervision.”

“You’ll wing it.”

“I’ll wing it.”



* * *



Later, she got an up-close look at the bathroom and enjoyed a sexy, steamy interlude in the biggest shower she’d ever seen outside of HGTV.

She could regret she hadn’t brought so much as a tube of lipstick, but he’d seen the rest of her naked anyway.

Then she got a look at the kitchen.

“Oh, this is so smart. Open this up, because this is how people live now, and still respect the origins. It’s what Gram and my mother did with the Tudor. Do you cook a lot? Because this is a very scary stove.”

“Not a lot, no. Enough to get by.”

“My getting by used to be a salad, takeout, or order in.”

“With frozen potatoes.”

“My Tater Tots are excellent. I can make pork chops. It’s my one thing. And Mexican potatoes—they’re spicy.”

“I like spicy.”

She wandered to the glass doors. “Your back gardens are fabulous. And you have herbs, so I can use fresh. It’s Nina’s mother’s recipe, but the problem is she—and everyone in my house—doesn’t understand or believe in using precise measurements.”

“You don’t measure behind the bar,” he pointed out.

“Don’t attack me with logic when I’m obsessing over potatoes. Where are they?”

He pointed to a lower cabinet, where she found wire baskets and red potatoes.

“Do you have a scrubber thing?”

“Under the sink. How long do they take?”

“About an hour once I— Crap, I’m supposed to preheat the oven. See? Supervision. Jesus, there’s a lot of knobs on this thing.”

Because it amused him, he let her figure it out while he chose a bottle of wine. “I have white if you’d rather.”

“No, the Cab’s more than fine. There! Did it. I think. I’m already feeling the flop sweat.”

While she scrubbed the potatoes, Howl sat beside her, head pressed to her leg. Miles went to the door, opened it. Said, “Out.”

“He’s not bothering me.”

“He needs to patrol.”

“He does?”

“It’s his idea, not mine.” After he closed the door, he turned to her. “Are you going to say this meal requires a salad or a green vegetable?”

“I’m absolutely not going to say that.”

“I’m starting to think you may be, almost, the perfect woman.”

He set a glass of wine on the counter beside her.

“I like salads and green vegetables fine, but I’m currently obsessing about potatoes. I don’t have room for more than that. I need to use that cutting board and one of those knives you have on that magnetic strip like a restaurant kitchen.”

“Go right ahead.”

“Then I need the herbs and spices and olive oil and a baking sheet. And scissors or shears so I can cut some of the herbs out there. He actually looks like he’s patrolling.”

“Because he is.” He set out a baking sheet, kitchen shears, and pointed to the olive oil dispenser, then to a cabinet. “Spices.”

He watched her cut the potatoes into wedges. Amused all over again at the intensity of her focus, he leaned back on the counter, sipped his wine.

He enjoyed his Sunday solitude, he really enjoyed it. But he found it surprisingly pleasant to have her in his kitchen.

She muttered something about garlic, so he pointed again.

When she went out for the herbs, Howl interrupted his routine to race to her so they had another round of mutual admiration.

She came back in, chopped things up. Pulled more things out of the spice cupboard. Dumped things on the potatoes, used a wooden spoon to stir and coat. Grabbed the pepper mill, added that—obviously forgotten, as she stirred it all up again.

“Okay, I think I’ve got it. Anyway, here goes.”

She put the baking sheet in the oven, set the timer.

“You said an hour. That’s thirty minutes.”

“Because that’s when I’m supposed to stir it all up again. I don’t know why, and don’t care. It’s just what I’m supposed to do.”

She grabbed her wine, said, “Whew!” And drank.

“Did you have kitchen duty in your resort training?”