Page 34 of Better When Shared (Kristin Lance Anthologies #2)

Tristan

The storm only seemed to get worse. Sheets of rain slapped the ground hard enough to bounce back, and the wind turned every tree branch into a battering ram. A quick trip to the caretaker's cottage to check in with Mr. and Mrs. Donnelly left my hair plastered to my scalp and my shoes at a level of squelch I hadn't experienced since jumping in puddles as a boy.

The Donnellys had been caretakers since my grandfather had passed when I was a teenager, and they'd fussed over me like I was their grandchild, loading me up with a big basket of provisions and a bag of dry clothes and clean sheets, both covered in big plastic garbage bags to weather the storm.

News of flooded bridges had traveled fast across the countryside, and Mr. Donnelly insisted we stay the night instead of trying to drive in this mess.

Which meant I was stuck here. With temptation.

I shook off my jacket in the entryway, taking in the worn red carpet and the slight odor of mildew under the lavender as I peeled the drenched garbage bag off of the basket of food, trying not to drip water everywhere, which was an impossible task. I kicked off my wet shoes and socks and left them by the door to dry, and looked around.

The only light came from the sitting room to the left of the lobby, where the crackle of fire blended with the soft sound of voices.

They'd made themselves at home.

Juniper was curled in the biggest armchair, wrapped up in a soft wool blanket. She looked comfortable, bare shoulders peeking out. Marco stood with his back to the fire, hands outstretched, letting the heat bake his jeans dry. His shirt had dried to a snug fit that made his shoulders look even broader, if such a thing was possible. And Juniper's dress was hanging over the fireplace, drying, which could mean only one thing. She was naked under that blanket.

Juniper noticed me first. "Success?"

"Sort of,"

I said, holding up the basket and bag.

"The caretakers say the roads are impassable. We're officially marooned, but they gave us provisions."

Her gaze dropped to the basket in my hand.

"Is that dinner?"

"Chicken stew and some things for breakfast, I believe. They said there are some dry goods in the pantry as well, and it should all be good to use. Mrs. Donnelly uses this oven for baking since the one in the cottage is too small."

I opened the bag of clothes and held up a pile of track pants, t-shirts, and jumpers, all emblazoned with brightly colored logos of sports teams.

"And these, courtesy of Mrs. Donnelly's son. He's in uni."

I held up a neon-colored tracksuit.

"Apparently, he has terrible fashion sense."

Marco grinned, showing off his charming dimples.

"Anything is an improvement over wet denim."

I dropped the supplies on the sideboard and grabbed a stack of clothing for myself.

"I'll change upstairs," I said.

Juniper's blanket shifted as she drew up one knee, exposing the full length of her thigh.

"You could change here,"

she said, eyes innocent.

"We're all friends, right?"

Marco snorted.

"He's British, and uptight, Juni. He'd rather die of hypothermia."

Juni. I liked that nickname for her.

"Come on, you can pick a room, too," I said.

Without waiting to see if they'd follow me, I climbed the stairs to the guest rooms. The upstairs hallway was as I remembered: creaking with every step, smelling faintly of beeswax and long-dead roses. I headed to my favorite room out of habit. It was a light-filled room at the corner, with a stunning view when the weather wasn't clouding everything. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw them peek into the two rooms next to mine and pick one.

I stripped down, toweling myself off with a questionable towel that had still been hanging in the bathroom. The sweatpants fit, barely, and the T-shirt was two sizes too small. It hugged my chest and biceps in a way I was not prepared for. I looked like a midlife crisis trying to pass for a college student.

I sighed and hung my damp clothes above the tub in the ensuite bathroom, hoping they'd dry.

Back downstairs, Juniper and Marco were already dressed in sweats of their own. Juniper looked cozy in her oversized hoodie, while Marco looked about as uncomfortable as me. They were uncorking a bottle of wine they must have found somewhere, pouring it into mismatched coffee mugs.

"Looking good, Tristan,"

Marco said, raising his mug in salute. I thought he was probably teasing, but his eyes lingered on my body, his expression almost appreciative.

I sat down in the wing chair opposite Juniper, stretching my legs toward the fire. The pants pulled tight over my thighs. Not the most comfortable, but at least I was warm and dry.

Juniper handed me a mug. Her nails brushed my knuckles, sending a small electric jolt up my arm.

"To surviving the elements," she said.

"To surviving,"

I echoed, and drained half the mug in one go.

Somewhere around the third glass of wine, Marco set his mug down and fixed me with a serious look.

"Did you spend much time here growing up?"

I nodded.

"I spent summers here. My grandfather ran it. He was a terror, but he loved the place. He wasn't too fond of the luxury properties, and left the management of those to my grandmother, who was even more of a terror."

"They didn't live together?"

I chuckled, sipping the wine.

"I don't think they liked each other very much, but they stayed married."

"Did you help with running the place?"

"There weren't many guests anymore, but he made me do all kinds of chores. Caleb and Gemma came out too, though not for the entire summer. He'd give us random chores, maybe just to keep us busy. He'd make us walk the fence line after storms to check for damage, even though there weren't any livestock."

Marco's laugh was unguarded, warm.

"Sounds like heaven. Why did you stop coming..

"He passed away. And there wasn't really a reason to after that."

Beneath the grief, there was something sweet about the memory of running wild through these halls, making up ghost stories with Caleb, trying to eavesdrop on guests from behind the dumbwaiter. Something I'd forgotten. My chest ached with it.

"I'm so sorry for your loss."

Juniper's face had gone soft, and she reached out and patted my hand.

"Thank you for bringing us here."

"Wasn't much of a choice,"

I said, shrugging.

"The Range Rover's not amphibious."

She watched me for a beat.

"You could have taken us to a hotel. Or left us in the car."

Marco interjected.

"That's not his style. He's a gentleman."

"I'm not,"

I said, a little too sharply.

"You don't know me."

They went quiet, sipping their wine. Outside, the storm pounded against the windows, turning the old glass into a mosaic of dark and darker.

"I guess we should prepare the rooms?"

Juniper said, standing.

"And maybe see what food your caretakers sent us."

They swept out of the sitting room as a unit, her bare feet silent on the old rugs, his stride unhurried and feline. I followed, trying not to look at the way the fabric of the ill-fitting track pants stretched over his ass, or the way hers hung low on her hips, revealing a crescent of tempting skin.

At the top of the stairs, Marco turned to me, his arms loaded with the clean sheets from the bag.

"I'll play housekeeper and remake the beds. You two can prepare dinner. And Juni mentioned prepping something for breakfast."

"I'd love your help,"

Juniper said, her smile wide.

Not sure I wanted to dive into spending more time with them, I hovered for a moment at the doorway to the room I'd claimed, feeling both possessive and exposed, then turned to walk into my room. I heard a curse from the hallway and realized there was no hiding. He was going to appear with sheets any moment.

I set my phone to charge on the side table and padded back toward the stairs. The house was silent, except for the distant thud and bump of Marco wrestling with fitted sheets.

I found Juniper in the kitchen. The stew simmered on the stove, filling the room with a fragrant, savory aroma. She'd lit every bulb she could find, transforming the ancient scullery into something almost cheerful. She stood at the counter in front of a series of containers of dry goods, rooting through the drawers, and coming up with ancient measuring cups and a battered wire whisk. The hoodie was only half-zipped, and it had slipped off one shoulder. I could see the faint shadow of a tattoo curling toward her collarbone, reminding me of what she'd look like gloriously naked, bouncing on Marco's cock.

I watched her for a moment. She moved like she owned the place.

"Do you want something?"

she asked, not looking up.

"Just seeing what you're up to," I said.

She beamed at me.

"Perfect. Your caretakers gave us eggs, and I want to make bread to go with it for breakfast. They have all the ingredients for cinnamon swirl, like my grandmother used to make. There's nothing better than the smell of baking when you wake up. We can let it rise overnight, then pop it in the oven first thing."

She started setting out ingredients—flour, sugar, a brick of butter that might have been here since the Blair administration.

"You bake?"

I said, unable to hide my skepticism.

"Only occasionally. I might do it more if our life wasn't so chaotic."

"Is the boutique hotel business stressful?"

She shrugged.

"Yeah. We didn't expect it to go as far as it has. Don't get me wrong, we're grateful it's doing well, but Marco and I always sort of envisioned a quieter life, you know? Everything blew up so quickly that we've had a chaotic year. But we've started to work out how to calm the chaos. Delegation goes a long way, don't you think?"

"Wouldn't know. I've never delegated."

She burst out laughing. When I didn't laugh with her, she sobered and looked at me, wide-eyed.

"You don't? We've recently found some balance by hiring good people and paying them well. It cuts into the profit margins, but what's the point in profit if you don't have time for fun?"

As she spoke, I hovered by the counter, watching as she began measuring flour with ruthless efficiency, dusting the surface with a flick of her wrist.

"What's fun, again?"

This time I was teasing, and she smiled.

"Well, here's an example of delegating. You're going to help,"

she announced.

"For educational purposes."

"I've never—"

"That's the best part,"

she said, crowding me until my hip pressed against the battered wooden edge.

"Trying something new. Bread is forgiving. You just have to feel it. I'll show you."

She poured flour into my palms, then reached past me for the salt, her body brushing mine in a way that made my skin go electric. Her warmth seeped through my too-tight T-shirt, and I tensed, trying not to show how much it affected me.

Juniper worked fast, dumping flour into a mixing bowl and cracking in a single egg.

"Here,"

she said, pushing the bowl in front of me.

"Start mixing."

I reached for the wooden spoon, but she batted my hand away.

"Nope. Hands only."

She rolled up her sleeves and plunged both hands into the sticky mess.

"Come on. Don't be shy."

I sank my fingers into the cool dough, feeling it clump around my knuckles.

"This feels obscene,"

I said, but she just laughed.

"You're well aware of how capable I am with the obscene,"

she murmured, bringing the other night back into the forefront of mine. Her hands found mine beneath the surface, guiding my movements.

"You've got to really get in there. Use some muscle. There's nothing delicate about dough. It likes to be manhandled."

I shot her a look, but she wasn't joking. She showed me how to knead, folding the dough over on itself, her fingers slick and sure. Every time I lost the rhythm, she corrected me, her hands strong over mine, her nails tracing gentle circles into my wrist. The sensation was strangely intimate. It demanded total attention.

My breath sped up. I could feel sweat prickling at my hairline.

Juniper leaned in close, her voice dropping.

"You're getting it now. The dough is alive; you have to coax it. Feel the elasticity."

"Is this a metaphor?"

I asked, fighting to keep my hands steady as the mass firmed up.

"Only if you want it to be."

She pressed her body lightly to my side, resting her chin on my shoulder as we worked.

"You tense up when you get flustered. Loosen your grip."

I risked a glance at her face. Her eyes were dark and liquid in the harsh kitchen light, her lips stained with cinnamon. She looked at my mouth, and then at my hands in the dough, and then at my mouth again.

Juniper's hands closed over mine, stopping the motion. She turned my palms over, examining the sticky mess, and smiled.

"Perfect. Now we let it rest. Later, we'll roll it out and add the cinnamon swirl, then chill it overnight in the fridge, assuming that works."

She scraped the dough into a battered metal bowl, covering it with a damp tea towel.

"See? Easy."

I flexed my fingers, trying to ignore how much I wanted to touch her in ways that had nothing to do with flour.

Juniper stepped closer, reaching up to brush a streak of flour from my cheek with her thumb.

"You look good like this," she said.

"Less polished. More real."

I wanted to say something clever, but my tongue stuck.

"What's the naughtiest thing you've ever done?"

I asked suddenly, picturing them naked in that pool.

She went another direction with her answer.

"I shoplifted lipstick once. I was fourteen. The shop lady caught me, of course, and made me promise never to do it again. Then she let me keep the lipstick."

She gave a little shrug.

"Sometimes you have to break the rules, or you never get what you want."

"I don't know what I want,"

I said, surprising both of us.

She shook her head.

"That's a lie. You just don't want to want it."

She turned away, then moving to the sink to wash her hands. I stood rooted to the spot, feeling as if the ground had shifted under me.

The dough would rise in an hour. I needed to get out of this room.

But as I turned, Marco padded in, wearing only sweats and a sleeveless shirt that showed every inch of his tan, cut arms. He looked at Juniper, then at me, then at the bowl on the counter.

"You two going to open a bakery?"

Juniper smiled, pure mischief.

"I'm teaching him the fine art of breakfast."

Marco crossed the kitchen, putting an arm around Juniper's waist.

"You've corrupted the CEO of the Bancroft Group. He's covered in flour. How will he ever recover?"

She leaned into his side, comfortable and open, and let him feed her a dab of dough from his finger. Marco's gaze slid over to me, the look heavy with intent.

"Dinner?"

Marco asked, and Juniper startled, running to the stove to check on the simmering stew.

I watched them spring into action with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine. Marco set the table while Juniper dished the stew into bowls, barefoot and wearing an oversized Bath City Football Club jumper like it was a glamorous dress. Her hair was a mess of dark curls that made her look wild and elemental. I decanted a wine from the collection in the pantry, letting it breathe in the only glass pitcher we could find, and sliced the baguette with a bread knife that probably predated the Queen's coronation.

We ate in the little dining room where my grandfather used to serve breakfast to guests. The storm still raged outside, the inn creaking and sighing around us. Marco did most of the talking at first, launching into a monologue about the construction of the building, the timber framing, the attention to detail in the wainscoting.

"You can feel the centuries in these walls,"

he said, running his palm along the grain of the table.

"It's beautiful,"

Juniper said, clearly enjoying her husband's monologue.

Marco leaned in.

"Do you ever think about reopening this place? Make it the crown jewel of the Bancroft collection?"

"Wouldn't work,"

I said, chewing stew.

"Too remote. Too expensive to renovate. No one wants to drive two hours for a haunted country inn unless it's got a Michelin star and a celebrity chef attached."

"Haunted?"

Juniper's eyes lit up.

"Don't tease me. Is there a ghost?"

I raised an eyebrow.

"Every English country house has at least one. Ours is Lady Eleanor. She's supposed to wander the halls in a white dress, weeping for her dead lover."

Juniper clapped her hands, delighted.

"That's so much better than the ones that just rattle chains."

Marco's gaze fixed on me.

"Did you ever see her?"

I shook my head.

"No ghosts. Just drafty windows and overactive imaginations."

They laughed together, and I smiled, warmth spreading through my chest despite the chill in the air.

The wine made everything blurrier, the edges softer. By the second bottle, we were leaning in, sharing stories, our arms and knees brushing under the table. Marco's hand landed on mine once, as he made an enthusiastic point about the inn's original stone fireplace, and lingered just a second too long.

Juniper leaned in, eying my reaction.

"Did you ever bring girls here?"

she asked, swirling her wine. "Or boys?"

The question knocked the breath out of me.

"No," I said.

"It wasn't that kind of place. And I'm not that kind of man."

She tilted her head.

"Noted. I'm sorry we pushed a little. We're both just really into you. You intrigue us."

"You barely know me."

She pursed her lips, then took a little sip of her wine.

"I think it's the way you appear so buttoned up and controlled, but craft art with such passion."

"It's not art, it's just therapy."

"Liar,"

Marco said.

"The way you make things can only be called art."

Juniper nodded.

"And the passion behind it hints at hidden depths, so we're curious. We don't want to make you feel uncomfortable, though."

There was a moment of silence, heavy as a velvet curtain.

"You don't have to be afraid,"

Marco said.

"We're only interested in getting to know you better."

It took everything I had to hold her gaze.

"I'm not afraid," I lied.

"I just don't—"

"Don't want to lose control,"

Juniper finished for me.

I swallowed.

"Something like that."

Marco leaned across the table.

"Tristan. It's okay to want things. But it's okay to say no, too. If you want us to stop the flirting, we'll stop. Juni won't make you stick your hands in any more dough."

For a second, I saw how it could be: the three of us, tangled in sheets and sweat, mouths and hands and hunger. My cock twitched, pressing hard against the borrowed sweats, and I cursed myself for wanting it so much.

We could have fucked right there on the table. I knew it. They knew it. But I stood up, pushing back my chair, and shook my head.

"We should get some rest," I said.

They both watched me with a mixture of amusement and frustration.

"Sleep well, Tristan,"

Juniper said.

"Try not to dream about anything too naughty."

Marco rolled his eyes.

"I think he's telling us to stop. We really didn't mean to do anything inappropriate. We're sorry to be so much trouble, really."

I nodded curtly, afraid of what I'd say if I tried to speak, and turned and stalked out of the room before anyone could say more.