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"You can stay here, in the breakfast room," Emma said.

Arthur nodded, checking his watch. "Excellent. Ms. Sterling texted me a moment ago. She is parking her rental car around the back. She will join us momentarily."

Emma's stomach tightened at the name. The woman who couldn't even manage to arrive on time to claim her inheritance.

"I'll let you get settled," Emma said, keeping her expression neutral. "I'll be right back with the tea."

Back in the sanctuary of the kitchen, Emma took a steadying breath. She poured the boiling water into the teapot. She arranged the freshly baked biscuits onto a porcelain plate. Her hands betrayed her. They trembled as she lifted the serving tray.

Get a grip, she ordered herself. You deal with arrogant guests every single day. This one is only the one that could possibly make you homeless and jobless, not a big deal.

Emma pushed the swinging door open with her hip and walked down the carpeted hallway. The tray required both of her hands. As she neared the room, she noticed the door was pushed slightly ajar. The murmur of voices drifted out into the hallway.

"The estate encompasses the main house, the gardens, and the outbuildings," Arthur was saying, accompanied by the rustle of parchment paper. "We need to go over the appraisals before we discuss the transfer of the deed."

Emma stopped a few feet from the door. She braced herself for the sound of the American heiress. She expected a shrill tone, or perhaps a bored drawl. Instead, the response that drifted through the crack in the door made Emma stop breathing entirely.

"I'm not looking to drag this out, Mr. Finch. I certainly don't plan on spending my summer managing a rural bed-and-breakfast. We need to figure out what to do with the place quickly. I have a company to run in New York."

The serving tray suddenly felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

The voice.

It was a rich baritone. A transatlantic blend stripped of any brashness. It was shaped into a chilling authority. It sounded like the exact same voice that had whispered against her skin in the dark.

The teacups rattled against their saucers. Emma swallowed over the lump in her throat. No. It was impossible. A coincidence. She stepped forward, nudging the door with her shoulder, and pushed it wide open.

The three lawyers were seated around one of the breakfast tables that had previously been cleared. Standing by the bay window, bathed in the gray morning light, was the woman. She was wearing a dark blue suit. A wool jacket over a pressed cotton shirt. Her hair was pulled back into that immaculate knot at the base of her skull. Her posture was rigid, her hands clasped behind her back as she stared out at the rain-soaked gardens.

At the sound of the door opening, the woman turned around. Emma's heart stalled. It was her. The dark eyes. The aristocratic cheekbones. The full lips that Emma had bruised with her own mouth just hours ago.

Emma couldn't bring herself to remember how to walk, the tray anchored in her hands. She stared at the woman. Her brain desperately tried to reconcile the naked stranger thrashing in the hotel sheets with the unyielding executive standing there.

Across the room, the woman's eyes locked onto Emma.

For less than a second, the icy mask slipped, leaving her hollowed of air. Her gaze dropped to the tray in Emma's hands, flicked up to the collar of Emma's sweater, and settled on her panicked face. The realization struck both of them at once.

The unasked questions. The silent pact to remain nameless. The frantic need to escape reality. They hadn't just been hiding from their grief in that hotel room. They had been hiding from each other. Silence stretched, pulling tight like a wire about to snap. The air in the room crackled with the memory of tangled sheets and whispered commands.

Emma clamped the rim of the tray until the metal creaked under her thumbs. Every scrap of composure failed her at once, the question spilling out before she could bite her tongue.

"What are you doing here?"

Arthur Finch turned around in his leather chair. A polite smile rested on his face, completely blind to the tension suffocating the room.

"Ah, Emma. Perfect timing," Arthur said. He gestured to the woman with a wave of his hand. "I don't believe you two have formally met."

The woman didn't look at Arthur. She couldn’t look away from Emma. A chaotic mix of shock and defensive anger flared in her dark gaze. She lifted her chin, her composure sliding violently back into place.

Arthur continued, his voice echoing in the dreadful silence.

"This is Emma Hayes, the innkeeper of The Amber House. Emma, I'd like to introduce Victoria Sterling. Joe's granddaughter."

Chapter Six

Emma

The words hung in the air, echoing against the wood paneling of the breakfast room.