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Mr. Galloway blinked, clearly thrown by the sight of her. He had obviously been expecting Emma in an apron, ready to be berated. He puffed out his chest.

"Well, no, actually," he said, slapping a brass key onto the desk. "The radiator clanked all night, the water pressure is a joke, and the draft from the window gave my wife a stiff neck. We've been coming here for five years, and the standards are slipping. I expect a discount."

Emma had just stepped out of the dining room archway, carrying a tray of juice glasses. Victoria held up a single finger, silencing Emma without even looking at her. She turned her terrifying attention onto Mr. Galloway.

"I am terribly sorry to hear that," Victoria said. She picked up his invoice. "However, room four is priced to reflect its status in the historic wing. The radiator’s acoustic properties are a feature of a nineteenth-century boiler system. As for the water pressure, the estate is on a gravity-fed system. To alter it would require raising our nightly rate by approximately forty percent. Would you prefer we implement that price increase for your booking next year?"

Mr. Galloway’s mouth opened and closed. "I—well, no. That’s absurd."

"I agree," Victoria smiled. "Which is why we maintain the current rates. Your total comes to two hundred and forty pounds. Your receipt is here." She slid the paper across the desk. "Now. I believe you have luggage."

Mrs. Galloway, who had remained silent, nudged her husband. "Just take the receipt, John."

Victoria walked past them toward the base of the stairs. Sitting on the landing were three enormous, hard-shelled suitcases. Emma crossed her arms over her chest. A smirk played at the corner of her mouth. Checkmate, her posture said.

Victoria didn't hesitate. She grabbed the handles of the two largest suitcases and hoisted them. Her biceps screamed in protest. She kept her spine perfectly straight and turned around. The hallway was narrow. As Victoria walked toward the front door, Emma didn't move out of the way fast enough. Victoria brushed past her, the heavy wool of Emma's cardigan dragging across the silk of Victoria's sleeve. Emma inhaled sharply, stepping back until her spine hit the wall, her smirk vanishing instantly.

Victoria carried the bags out the heavy front door, her loafers crunching into the muddy gravel. She loaded them into the boot and walked back for the third bag. By the time she returned to the reception desk, the Galloways were driving away. Emma was standing behind the desk, looking at the perfectly organized check-out log. Victoria walked in. She was breathing heavier than normal, but she refused to pant. Her shoes were caked in wet mud.

Emma looked down at the ruined shoes. Then she looked up at Victoria. The smugness was completely gone, replaced by a complicated expression of intense irritation and a very distinct, involuntary flush spreading across her cheeks.

"They usually tip," Emma said finally, her voice lacking its usual bite.

"I don't require tips, Ms. Hayes," Victoria said, stepping closer to the desk. "I require efficiency. Is there anything else you'd like me to carry, or should I proceed with reviewing of the vendor contracts?"

Emma’s jaw tightened. She broke eye contact, staring aggressively at the ledger. "The contracts are in the office. And call me Emma, for fuck’s sake."

Victoria nodded once, a tiny smirk forming on her lips, and walked away.

It wasn't until ten-thirty that the house finally emptied of guests.

Victoria slipped out the back door leading to the kitchen garden. She needed air. The adrenaline of the morning had faded, leaving behind an ache in her lower back. She stood on the flagstone patio, leaning her hips against the low stone wall. The air was cool, smelling of damp earth. She closed her eyes, trying to untie the knot of tension between her shoulder blades.

She recognized the thud of Emma’s work boots on the flagstones. Emma walked out holding a crate of bruised apples, setting it down heavily on a wooden bench. The silence between them stretched. It felt different now—less like two people bracing for impact, and more like two people running out of reasons to pretend they weren't exhausted.

Victoria finally opened her eyes. Emma was looking at her. She looked tired, the purple shadows of too many early mornings visible beneath her eyes. She glanced down at Victoria’s feet.

"You ruined your shoes," Emma noted. Her voice lacked its usual sharp edge.

Victoria looked down at the mud-caked leather. "They’re shoes. They can be replaced."

"Not around here, they can’t." Emma leaned against the bench. For a moment, the bravado dropped completely. She let out a breath, a small puff of white in the chilly air.

"For an unwanted guest," Emma murmured, her eyes dropping to Victoria's hands before snapping back up to her face, "you handle the luggage well."

It was a dangerous olive branch, loaded with a double meaning that sent a jolt of heat straight to Victoria's stomach. She pushed off the stone wall, standing to her full height. She smoothed the front of her blouse, holding Emma's gaze deliberately.

"I handle everything well, Ms. Hayes," Victoria said softly.

Emma actually swallowed. Her eyes darkened, a flash of something hot and complicated crossing her features before she locked it down behind a mask of sheer panic.

"Right," Emma muttered, turning hastily toward the compost bins, nearly tripping over her own boots in the process. She paused, looking over her shoulder, desperately throwing her defensive posture back up. "Move it, partner. The supply truck gets here in twenty minutes, and you're helping me unload the flour."

Victoria watched her walk away, the sway of her hips totally unapologetic. She looked down at her ruined shoes, feeling the ache in her shoulders and the lingering, dangerous electricity humming in her veins.

She was going to destroy her wardrobe. She was going to exhaust herself. And God help her, Victoria realized with a creeping sense of horror, she was actually going to enjoy every second of fighting this woman.

Chapter Nine