Page 26 of Better When Shared (Kristin Lance Anthologies #2)

Juniper

Something about a room filled with luxurious marble and sparkling crystal and people in posh clothing made nervous laughter bubble up from my chest.

No matter how much I reminded myself that my husband and I were wealthy by most standards, it never quite stuck. I still felt like a regular girl with a regular life. Like I was a little girl, sneaking into the Ritz in Portland, thinking I could run away from home and live like Eloise in that series of books.

I bit my lip, trying to contain the giggles before they spilled out. The Bancroft Resort we simply ogled them together. And late at night, we'd sometimes whisper dirty fantasies about threesomes and get ourselves all hot and bothered. Not that we'd ever acted on those fantasies, of course. But it was fun to daydream.

The man was studying a tablet with the kind of focus most people reserved for defusing bombs, his jaw set in a hard line that somehow made me want to trace it with my fingertips. When he glanced up and our eyes met across that ridiculous lobby. Heat slammed through me like I'd touched a live wire. His gaze was sharp, assessing, and for a moment, almost hungry.

Another giggle slipped out.

His eyebrows drew together in what might have been confusion or annoyance—hard to tell with that severe expression—but before I embarrassed myself further, a crisp voice cut through the moment.

"Mr. and Mrs. Torres, I presume?"

A woman's voice, with a crisp, posh British accent, startled us out of our ridiculous ogling.

I turned to find a woman approaching us with a confident stride that suggested she owned everything in sight. She had ash-blonde hair in a perfect bob, green eyes that matched the gorgeous stranger's, and a smile that was professional without being warm. She couldn't have been much older than me, but she looked like she'd stepped out of a magazine spread title.

"Executive Women Who Will Destroy You."

"I'm Gemma Bancroft, COO of Bancroft Group Hotels. Caleb called to let us know he's flying in later this evening with his—er—"

Her eyes darted to the side, like she wasn't sure how to explain Caleb's unconventional relationship.

"Ah yes, his lovers, Julian and Nisha. So glad they could come,"

Marco said cheerfully, if a little too loudly.

I angled my head towards the tall man.

"Is that Caleb's brother? They look so much alike, and yet… not."

I couldn't very well say this one was hotter and way more uptight.

She looked his way and nodded.

"Yes, that's Tristan Bancroft, my cousin and the CEO of the Bancroft Hotel Group. He has a meeting, or I'm sure he would have loved to talk to you as well."

Had that been sarcastic, or was I being paranoid.

"Since Caleb is running late, I've sent housekeeping to prepare your room a little early. Would you like a tour of the property while you wait?"

"That would be lovely."

Marco eyed the original fretwork above the reception desk, seconds away from clapping his hands like a giddy preschooler. A chance to examine every historical detail up close with an inside scoop from the very family that had built the place? He was probably ready to sell our firstborn child to this woman.

Marco was radiating excitement as Gemma led us through rooms that looked straight out of a BBC period drama. The perfectly preserved Georgian elegance dripped from every inch of the decor, from the silk wallpaper to the antique furniture. She explained the hotel's history with the kind of practiced ease that suggested she'd given this tour a thousand times.

I had never felt more out of place in a hotel, and my husband and I owned four of them, so I was pretty damn used to being in hotels. I looked down at my flowing bohemian sundress, which I'd loved ten minutes ago, and wondered if people could tell I'd bought it at a thrift store.

"The thermal spa draws from the same waters as the ancient Roman thermae,"

she was saying as we descended marble steps into a serene pool area.

"These healing waters have drawn visitors here for over two thousand years."

My husband's dimples flashed as he looked around the room. His dark, wavy hair was still a little messy and chaotic from the flight to England, but he was handsome as always, and full of passion for history, as usual. He vibrated with excitement, asking questions about architectural preservation and original Roman engineering that made Gemma's professional mask slip into something more genuine.

"It's beautiful,"

I said when we paused in the main spa area, and I meant it. The blend of historic baths and modern luxury was genuinely stunning, all warm stone and flickering candles and the gentle sound of thermal water flowing through copper pipes and into the pool.

But something was missing.

When we finished the tour back in the main lobby, Gemma turned to us with that professional smile firmly back in place.

"Well? What do you think?"

Marco launched into enthusiastic praise about the historical preservation and architectural details, but Gemma's sharp eyes fixed on me.

"And you, Mrs. Torres? You seem... less satisfied."

Heat crept up my neck. Shit. Was I that transparent.

"Oh, no, it's lovely. Really. Everything is absolutely gorgeous and perfectly appointed…"

I trailed off, realizing I was digging myself deeper.

"But?"

Gemma prompted, and there was something almost amused in her tone.

I glanced around the pristine lobby, then back at her perfectly composed face. Fuck it. If we were going to work together, she might as well know what she was getting.

"But it's a bit like a museum where real people aren't quite welcome. Where you're afraid to touch anything, and you can't speak above a whisper. It lacks something… comfort?"

The words hung in the air between us, and I wanted to stuff them back in my mouth. Way to insult your friend's family legacy, Juniper.

But instead of offense, something like understanding flickered across Gemma's features. Her professional mask slipped just enough for me to glimpse something more human underneath.

"Yes."

She glanced toward where Tristan was meeting with two older men near the windows.

"I understand. Lovely, but a bit cold and untouchable. Our clientele seem to love that. It makes it feel more posh, I suppose. But Caleb showed me an article on the success of your Bindery brand, and it made me wonder what more we could do to breathe life into our hotels."

"That's Juni's specialty,"

Marco said proudly.

"I know the history and the architecture, and she knows how to give the place a beating heart."

I smiled at Gemma, realizing I'd found someone who wasn't as different from me as I'd first thought.

"It's a big part of our branding. Our hotels don't stand apart from the neighborhoods they're in; they're part of them."

Gemma glanced around the pristine lobby, then leaned closer with the conspiratorial air of someone about to commit treason.

"Can I tell you a secret?"

she whispered, and for the first time since we'd met her, that polished executive mask dropped away.

"Tristan is so particular about attending to the needs of our wealthy clientele that sometimes I think… I don't know. I might do things a little differently."

"I'm intrigued,"

Marco said, eyes sparkling. "How so?"

She looked around, then tilted her head to the left, a secretive smile on her lips.

"Follow me. Quietly."

Marco and I exchanged glances as Gemma led us toward a corridor marke.

"Staff Only"

in discreet brass lettering. The contrast was immediate—beyond those swinging doors, the world transformed from museum perfection to something wonderfully, messily human. Fluorescent lights replaced crystal chandeliers, and the marble gave way to practical carpeting that showed signs of use.

"I started something a few months ago,"

Gemma explained as we walked, her voice animated in a way it hadn't been during the formal tour.

"Employee morale is... challenging. Our wealthy clientele can be so demanding. So I thought, what if we celebrated the things that make our staff proud?"

She led us around a corner and through double doors marke.

"Conference Room B,"

and my heart immediately lightened. Inside, they’d transformed a meeting space into something magical—a sweet little craft fair, complete with folding tables displaying handmade goods and employees browsing, talking, and laughing.

The space hummed with warm conversation and the kind of energy that came from people sharing things they loved. A woman in a housekeeping uniform was showing off delicate watercolor paintings of Bath's architecture to a man from the kitchen staff. Near the windows, someone had set up a jewelry display featuring hand-cut stones.

"This is incredible."

My shoulders, which I hadn't realized were tense, finally relaxed. These were my people."Why don't you have these things for sale to the guests?"

Gemma sighed.

"Oh. You know. Most of our guests can be so exacting. They only use their special brands."

"Funny. Our customers would love it!"

Marco said.

"All the buzzwords they love to brag about: bespoke, handmade, farm-to-table."

"Well, it's been a smash hit with the staff, anyway,"

Gemma said, and the pride in her voice was unmistakable.

"Productivity is up, turnover is down, and people actually seem happy to be here. Though I suspect Tristan would have opinions about staff using conference rooms for non-business purposes."

Marco was already gravitating toward a display of hand-carved wooden items, his eyes bright with enthusiasm.

"Look at this craftsmanship,"

he murmured, running reverent fingers over a cutting board with intricate Celtic knotwork.

I browsed a table of soaps that smelled like an herb garden—rosemary and thyme and something floral I couldn't identify. I couldn't resist pretty things and selected a few to buy.

"The lavender comes from my grandmother's garden,"

the seller said, as she wrapped our purchases.

We moved through the fair like kids let loose in the world's best toy store, collecting locally made bath salts, hand-knit scarves in colors that captured the English countryside, and a set of ceramic mugs that felt perfect in my hands. Every purchase came with a story, a connection, a glimpse into the lives of the people who made the Bancroft function day after day.

It was Marco who spotted the door in the back corner of the room, partially hidden behind a display of pressed flower art.

"What's through there? Is there more?"

he asked Gemma, who looked momentarily confused.

"Oh, that's just... storage, I think? We don't usually..."

But Marco was already heading toward it.

The door opened onto a smaller room that looked like an extension of the fair, and the moment I stepped inside, my breath caught. Every shelf displayed crochet work that was nothing short of breathtaking—intricate lacework, garments that were both delicate and bold, and pieces that straddled the line between art and clothing.

"Holy shit,"

Marco whispered, moving toward a stunning piece that looked like armor made of silk.

"Look at the construction on this. The tension is perfect, and that stitch pattern..."

He lifted it carefully, examining the way the fabric caught the light.

"This is incredible work."

I found myself drawn to a top that was all strategic holes and flowing lines that would cling to curves while revealing tantalizing glimpses of skin beneath. The craftsmanship was extraordinary—every stitch deliberate, every opening perfectly calculated for maximum impact.

"These range from naughty to downright slutty,"

Marco murmured in my ear, and I knew from the tone of his voice that he was getting ideas about dressing me up in our hotel room.

I held the top against my body, feeling the way the yarn wanted to curve and flow. In this piece, I wouldn't just be wearing clothing—I'd be wearing confidence, sensuality, the kind of garment that made you stand differently because you knew how good you looked.

"We'll take this, and this,"

I announced, gathering up an armload of pieces that made my skin sing just thinking about wearing them.

"All of these, actually."

Gemma looked confused as she accepted the wad of cash I'd pulled from my wallet.

"I'm not sure who made these. I didn't know there was anything in here! Perhaps they stashed them here before the fair started…"

"Could they be coming later?"

Marco speculated.

"I suppose so,"

she said, producing a bag and wrapping up our purchases.

"Oh well, I'm sure I'll find them sooner or later, right?"