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