Page 36 of Better When Shared (Kristin Lance Anthologies #2)

Marco

I woke to sunlight streaming through the guest room's beautiful mullioned windows. It was the kind of crisp English morning that made the storm feel like a fever dream. Juniper rolled over, still asleep, and pulled the blanket over her head. I was too restless to sleep more.

Pulling on too-tight sweatpants and a henley from the spare clothes the caretakers had loaned us, I padded downstairs in bare feet. The inn felt different in daylight—warmer, more welcoming, like it was shaking off decades of abandonment.

I dug into the basket the caretakers had given Tristan last night and found fresh eggs and real butter, and a small bag of coffee. It would pair perfectly with the bread Juniper had sitting in the fridge, ready to bake.

The kitchen was beautiful, morning light turning the stone countertops warm and honey-colored. I moved through the space with growing confidence, locating a coffee press behind dusty preserving jars and setting water to boil on the massive Aga range, which was a little finicky, but functional. I preheated the oven, pulling out the bread Juniper had made to let it rise in the warmth by the stove.

This place could be incredible. Not the sterile perfection of modern luxury hotels like the Bancroft in Bath, but something better—authentic character paired with thoughtful comfort. Guests who wanted to feel connected to history, to landscape, to something real instead of manufactured. Juniper and I had stayed up late talking through ideas.

The oven had heated beautifully, radiating a delicious, steady warmth. I slid in the bread. The scent filled the kitchen—cinnamon and butter and the promise of mornings that started slowly, with intention.

I was cracking eggs into a heavy skillet when footsteps on the stairs announced I was no longer alone. Juniper appeared first, wild curls still mussed from sleep and wearing an oversized sweatshirt that fell to mid-thigh. She moved like a cat, all fluid grace and barely contained energy, her dark eyes immediately finding mine across the kitchen.

"Domestic as hell,"

she said, but her smile was pure appreciation.

"I could get used to waking up to this."

Tristan's footsteps were more measured, each step careful and controlled even first thing in the morning. When he appeared in the doorway, freshly showered and dressed in his clothes that he'd worn before the storm.

Had someone pressed his shirt? How was it not wrinkly as hell? Gone was the messy, wild Tristan of last night. He was clean, polished, and put together once again. It felt like a step back.

But his eyes gave him away. They moved immediately to Juniper, taking in the way her borrowed sweatshirt clung to her curves, before darting to me with something that might have been hunger. He caught himself and looked away.

"Good morning," he said.

"I hope the accommodations were adequate."

I bit back a grin at his formal tone. Like we were hotel guests instead of three people who'd been dancing around our need to fuck each other since the moment we'd met.

"Perfect. Found enough for a hearty breakfast in that basket—looks like your caretakers take good care of you."

"Mrs. Donnelly is very thorough,"

he agreed, accepting the coffee I handed him with a careful precision that kept our fingers from touching. But I caught the way his nostrils flared at the scent of brewing caffeine, the slight softening around his eyes that suggested genuine appreciation.

We ate in relative quiet, the kind of comfortable domesticity that felt both natural and charged with possibility. Tristan's guard was up, but I could see cracks forming every time Juniper laughed or when he caught me watching him with obvious appreciation. His shoulders relaxed slightly with each bite, his posture losing some of its rigid formality.

That's when Juniper struck.

"So,"

she said, pulling her tablet from somewhere and setting it on the scrubbed wooden table with the kind of casual confidence that had first made me fall for her.

"We have a proposal for you."

Tristan's coffee cup paused halfway to his lips, and he swallowed hard.

"A proposal?"

From the panic in his expression, I'd bet money that he thought she was pitching sex, but we'd talked late into the night about another idea.

"A proposal. For this place. We want to help you bring it back to life. That's our specialty, you know. Historic properties that need a little love and some good ideas."

She pulled out her sketchbook, flipping open to the sketches she'd drawn while we cuddled in bed, talking late into the night.

I watched his face change as he took in her drawings, the careful way she'd preserved architectural details while adding modern necessities. His mask of polite disinterest slipped, replaced by something that looked dangerously like genuine excitement.

"These are remarkable,"

he said, leaning forward.

"But the cost?"

"We can work up a full proposal," I said.

"Everything's solvable with the right approach."

Tristan's eyes met mine across the table, and I could practically see his mind working, analyzing possibilities and calculating risks with the kind of intensity he probably brought to every business decision. But there was something else there too—genuine excitement for a project that would let him create instead of just manage.

When he smiled, really smiled for the first time since we'd met, it transformed his entire face. The sharp edges softened. His eyes lit up with genuine warmth, and I felt my chest tighten with want that went far beyond physical attraction.

The conversation gained momentum as we moved around the kitchen together, pulling out the bread and setting the table for breakfast. Tristan had shed his earlier formality like an expensive coat, rolling up his sleeves to reveal the muscular forearms that had captured my attention yesterday. And now that we'd seen him in his boxers, we knew everything about Tristan was sculpted and strong.

I grinned as I listened to Tristan and Juniper go back and forth as I ate the delicious bread they'd made together. When he challenged our plan, it wasn't dismissive skepticism but the kind of sharp questioning that made ideas stronger. This was the Tristan we'd been hoping to find. This was the man beneath the CEO facade, someone who actually cared.

"You're thinking like a traditional hotelier,"

I said, reaching across him for the butter. My shoulder brushed his, and I felt the press of solid muscle beneath expensive cotton, and I felt him tense at the contact. But he didn't move away.

"This isn't about competing with luxury chains. This is about offering something they can't."

The brief touch lit up every nerve ending in my arm. I was close enough to catch the scent of his cologne mixed with morning coffee, close enough to see the way his pupils dilated when our bodies made contact.

"The heritage angle is strong,"

Tristan admitted.

"The Bancroft name recognition, authentic period details, and historical significance combined."

"Plus stories,"

Juniper added.

"Every old inn has ghost stories, local legends, and historical events. Guests eat that stuff up."

Something shifted in Tristan's expression—surprise and what might have been gratitude. Like no one had ever suggested that his family's legacy could be an asset rather than a burden. The vulnerability in his face made my throat tight.

"There are definitely stories."

The conversation was flowing now, and our food was all but forgotten as ideas built on each other with the kind of creative energy that made anything feel possible. Tristan's demeanor had changed. His shoulders relaxed, his movements grew looser, even his carefully controlled posture gave way to something more natural. When he got excited about a particular restoration challenge, his voice deepened and took on a warmth that went straight to my cock.

Juniper shifted closer to him.

"We should look at the rest of the upstairs rooms,"

she said, her voice carrying undertones that had nothing to do with business assessment.

"Get a feel for the space, discuss layouts and flow."

The suggestion hung in the air like an invitation to something far more personal than renovation planning. Tristan's throat worked as he processed the implications, color rising in his sharp cheekbones despite his obvious efforts to maintain professional composure.

"Yes,"

he said finally, his voice rougher than intended.

"That would be... practical. For planning purposes."

But the way he said 'practical' suggested he understood exactly what Juniper was really proposing, and the knowledge sent heat racing through my veins.

The stairs creaked under our feet as Tristan led us up to the guest quarters, morning light streaming through tall windows to illuminate worn carpeting and faded wallpaper that had probably been elegant in Victoria's time. Everything felt smaller up here, more intimate, the low ceilings and narrow hallways creating a sense of enclosure that made every casual touch feel amplified.

"This would be the premier suite,"

Tristan said, opening a door to reveal a spacious room with mullioned windows overlooking the courtyard.

"Original four-poster bed, fireplace, separate sitting area."

The bed dominated the space—dark carved wood that spoke of centuries of use, draped with hangings that had faded from rich burgundy to something softer and more forgiving. I pictured bodies moving together on that antique mattress, tangled in sheets, while firelight painted shadows on stone walls.

The three of us fucking like there was nothing we wanted more than to touch in every way possible.

"The bed is incredible,"

Juniper said, running her hand along the carved footboard with obvious appreciation.

"Guests will love the authenticity. Maybe update the mattress for comfort, but preserve everything else."

Tristan nodded, but his breathing had become shallower as he watched her fingers trace patterns in the old wood.

"The en-suite would need complete renovation. Original plumbing is... inadequate for modern expectations."

"Clawfoot tub?"

I suggested, moving to examine the space between the bedroom and what would become the bathroom. Close enough to Tristan that our arms brushed when I gestured toward the wall that would need modification.

"Something that fits the period but actually works?"

"Perfect,"

he breathed, and I could hear the excitement bleeding through his careful control.

"Copper fixtures, heated floors, modern function with period aesthetics."

The subtext was killing me. We were talking about beds and mornings and intimate spaces while standing close enough to touch, close enough that I could see the way Tristan's pulse jumped in his throat when Juniper brushed past him to examine window hardware.

"Might be good to add some soundproofing between rooms,"

I added, my voice coming out rougher than intended.

"Important for guest privacy. Some people can be... vocal about their appreciation for good accommodations."

Tristan went completely still, green eyes darting between Juniper and me like he was trying to decode exactly what we were really discussing. The awareness in his expression suggested he understood perfectly, and the knowledge sent arousal spiking through my nervous system.

But then something shifted. His shoulders went rigid again, that careful mask sliding back into place like armor. He checked his expensive watch with movements that were just slightly too sharp, too controlled.

"I should check the road conditions,"

he said abruptly, backing toward the doorway with the kind of controlled retreat that suggested panic rather than genuine concern.

"The county council website will have updates about flooding and closures."

The excuse was transparent as glass, but his body language screamed flight. Despite everything—the obvious attraction, the growing excitement about the project, the way he'd been responding to every subtle touch and loaded comment—Tristan Bancroft was still fighting his own desires with everything he had.

I could see it in the flush creeping up his neck, in the way his breathing had become quick and shallow, in the obvious bulge pressing against his expensive khakis that he was trying desperately to hide. He wanted us. Wanted this. But he was stopping himself.

"Of course,"

Juniper said smoothly, but I caught the flash of disappointment that crossed her features.

"We'll just... finish looking around up here."

Tristan whirled around, his carefully maintained composure finally shattering.

"Enough!"

he shouted, his voice echoing off the ancient walls.

"Just bloody enough!"

I froze, caught off guard by the sudden explosion. His green eyes blazed with a mixture of fury and desire, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"You think I don't know what you're doing?"

he demanded, chest heaving.

"All these little touches, these comments about beds and privacy and—"

He ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, destroying hours of careful grooming in one frustrated gesture.

"Stop treating me like some sort of project."

Juniper took a step toward him.

"Tristan, we're not—"

"Don't,"

he cut her off, holding up one hand like a shield.

"You've been playing this game since the moment we met. Both of you. The thermal pool, last night in the kitchen—do you think I'm stupid? Do you think I can't see what's happening here?"

"It's not a game."

I kept my voice low and calm, keeping my distance despite every instinct screaming to move closer. To hug him and make him understand how much we were coming to care.

"We want you. We've been honest about that. And we've been trying to step back, at your request."

"Why bother with the inn, then? Why drag me back in? Is it some sort of ploy?"

I stepped forward, keeping my voice even.

"What ploy? There's nothing but honesty in what we feel for you."

"Feel for me?"

His voice cracked on the words.

"You don't even know me. You've created some fantasy version of the repressed businessman you want to corrupt. Well, I'm not your project, and I'm not your plaything."

Before either of us could respond, he stalked past us, shoulder brushing mine with enough force to make me step back. The contact seemed to burn through his thin veneer of control.

"I'm going to check the roads,"

he said, not looking back as he reached the doorway.

"When I return, I expect we'll discuss the business proposal like actual professionals, or not at all."

His footsteps thundered down the wooden stairs, each one punctuating his retreat like gunfire. Moments later, the front door slammed with enough force to rattle the old windows in their frames.

Juniper and I stood in stunned silence, the beautiful morning shattered by his outburst. She reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze.

"Well, that went well,"

I muttered. To my surprise, she burst out laughing.

"He loved our proposal so much he wanted to fuck us all over again, and it drove him absolutely crazy. That's my explanation and I'm sticking to it."