“I will.” She closed her eyes, went back to drifting. “In just a minute.”
“Okay,” he said again, moved to her jaw.
“No. Wait. Damn it. I don’t want them to worry.”
When he shifted, she wiggled out from under him and started to grab up her clothes. “Is it better if I make something up—not lie, that’s not it. I can just say you gave me a tour of the house if that’s better.”
“Better for what?”
“If you don’t want them—people—to know we had sex on your couch. It’s fine if you don’t.”
“You think too much.”
“I do.” She pulled on her clothes while he watched. “I can’t stop. I had to fake meditate when I went to yoga with my ladies. But I bet everybody else is faking, too.”
“Way too much. Get your phone, tell your ladies you’ll be awhile.”
“I’ll be awhile?”
“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.