She’d be analyzing the room with her typical critical eye for detail. He doubted she’d find fault with the comfortable, elegant room. Besides his giant partner’s desk, he’d furnished the rest of the large space with traditional pieces. A large, faded, antique Shiraz covered the pine floor in the center of the room. Smaller Persian rugs anchored the different seating areas on either side. He had a large walnut table and chairs for a conference set on the north side of the room, overlooking the front of the Inn. At the south, overlooking the lake, he had a pair of leather club chairs sharing an oversized, tufted ottoman and a pair of floor lamps. He did his best thinking there.
“You’re at the top of the world up here,” she said.
Her voice shook. Was she giving a compliment or dishing a condemnation?
“It’s a little cold, though.” She rubbed her hands.
“I run warm.”
She turned toward him. “That’s not what I meant.”
He wasn’t sure how to read her expression. That stung. He didn’t need her approval. Too bad he couldn’t seem to stop seeking it. He walked across the room to the door leading to the hallway. Twisting the knob, he pulled the panel open, his gestures stiff. “Through here, please.” He kept his voice low, not wanting to disturb any guests, or so he’d tell himself.
He adjusted his grip and remembered the duffle bag in his hand. “Actually.” He cleared his throat and set the bag on the ground. “Leave your bag here, please. I’ll wash your things tonight.”
“But…” She nibbled her lip.
“What’s wrong?”
“I won’t have anything to wear tomorrow.”
“If I don’t wash your things, you will give yourself away as an arsonist.”
She tucked her chin against her chest.
He hadn’t intended the words as a reprimand. But he wasn’t exactly sure what he meant about anything. Despite five days’ warning, he hadn’t prepared for the moment of speaking to her again. She’d always been his blind spot.
He grabbed the duffle off the ground, shut the door to his office, and opened the first door on the right leading to his studio apartment. He didn’t want her entering his personal space. The four walls had been his sanctuary from thinking about her. She forced his hand.
He waved her inside, flipping the light switch. “Stay here.” He pointed to the other side of the door.
“Okay,” she murmured.
As the adrenaline faded, he took stock of his body. His muscles ached from exertion, and his throat was scratchy from smoke inhalation. The pungent aroma of soot rolled off her and seeped out of her duffle bag. He could tackle the smell first and walked through the entryway to the bathroom. He'd forgone a tub for a stackable washer and dryer, favoring practical appliances over simple luxuries.
He set the duffle on the ground and opened the dryer, which was always full of laundry he never had the time to fold. He grabbed a T-shirt and returned to the entry. “Here. You can wear this tonight and leave the nightgown in the trash. I’ll do my best with your laundry.”
She accepted the cotton shirt and raised it to her nose, sniffing. “Thanks.”
The gesture was so ordinary but touched him. Memories crashed into him. She had done the same every time she borrowed one of his sweatshirts. He needed space. The sooner she was in her own room, the better. “This way.” He motioned to the hall.
She stepped past him.
He closed the entrance to his studio, continuing down the hall. At the next door, he pulled the old-fashioned iron key from his pocket and slipped it into the plate. The bolt unlocked with a click, and he held open the door for her to precede him.
She oohed and ahhed as she toured the room.
The attic rooms held an entryway with a door leading to a generous bathroom with separate shower and tub areas and another door opening onto the studio-style suite. A half wall separated the well-appointed living room area with a mini kitchen from the bedroom. His studio apartment eliminated the spaciousness of the bathroom, taking away the tub to create a larger kitchenette. Otherwise, his living quarters mirrored this space, separated by one wall.
When guests had stayed next door, he had never noticed noise. With her, however, he worried about hearing every flutter of her eyelashes and the hum of her snores. He needed to think up the details of a plan. She’d never been an early riser. He had time.
In the living room, he left the heavy key on the coffee table. “You should be all set. If you have any problems, I’m just in the room next door.”
“Why not go home?” She turned toward him, arching a brow. “Are you worried I’ll burn down the resort?”
“Not exactly.”
Her nostrils flared. If she hadn’t given away her frustration, she provided the perfect cover for his truth.
