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"I am aware of the timeline, Harrison," Victoria said, her voice like steel. "I'll handle it."

"See that you do. Goodbye, Victoria."

The call cut off, leaving the room in a quiet that felt too loud. Victoria dropped the phone onto the desk. Her breath came out uneven, her fingers trembling slightly against the wood. She pulled the cardboard flaps over the box, shutting the letters and the little wooden horse out of sight, and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes.

A soft knock sounded at the open door.

Victoria jumped, her hands dropping instantly into her lap. Emma was standing in the doorway holding a stack of clean white bath sheets. She looked like she had just come down the back stairs, her sleeves rolled to her elbows and a loose strand of hair tucked behind one ear.

Victoria straightened her spine immediately, frantically clearing her throat and reaching for whatever composure she had left. "Yes?"

Her voice sounded rough, betraying her instantly.

Emma just stood there, taking in the scene without judgment: the closed box, Victoria’s slightly red eyes, the way her shoulders were pulled tight. She looked down at the steaming mug of coffee in her own hand. She had probably made it for herself after finishing the guest rooms upstairs.

In a completely unexpected move, Emma walked into the office. She set the clean towels down on the credenza by the door and walked over to the desk.

She placed the heavy ceramic mug right next to Victoria’s phone. As she pulled her hand back, her knuckles grazed the side of Victoria’s wrist. The contrast between Emma’s warm skin and Victoria’s freezing hands sent a sudden, startling jolt through them both. Emma hesitated, her fingers hovering in the air for a second, before she pulled her hand away, tucking it safely into the pocket of her jeans.

Victoria stared at the dark surface of the coffee, entirely off balance by the quiet gesture.

"Listen, I'm sorry," Victoria said quietly. The words felt awkward in her mouth, but she couldn't stop them. "About earlier. What I said in the kitchen... it was out of line."

Emma paused with her hand resting on the edge of the oak desk. She looked at Victoria, really looked at her, almost as if she was seeing past the cashmere and the mask to the exhausted woman sitting underneath.

A faint half-smile touched the corner of Emma's mouth. Her gaze dropped to Victoria’s lips for one fleeting, unmistakable heartbeat before rising back to meet her eyes.

"You're an awful snob, Victoria," Emma said, her tone suddenly light, teasing, and carrying a very dangerous undertone of affection. "Drink the coffee before it goes cold."

Victoria wrapped her cold fingers around the warm ceramic, staring at the closed cardboard box. The coffee was scalding against her skin, a sudden heat in the quiet room. But looking at the box, and then at the closed door, the warmth didn't bring the comfort she very much needed: it felt like a warning of just how much she stood to ruin.

Chapter Ten

Emma

The problem with seeing a crack in someone’s perfectly constructed facade is that, once you notice it, you can never look away.

Emma had spent half the night staring at the ceiling of her bedroom, hands laced behind her head, listening to the wind rattle the old sash windows of The Amber House. She’d tried to sleep. Really, she had. But every time she shut her eyes, she was right back in Joe’s study, staring at Victoria Sterling slumped over the desk with red eyes and shaking hands.

It was infuriating. Up until yesterday, hating Victoria had been wonderfully straightforward. Victoria was just the rude woman from New York who talked on speakerphone in the hallway, complained about the hot water pressure, and wanted to sell the place out from under Emma's feet without looking up from her laptop.

And the woman who gave you several violently good orgasms, her traitorous brain supplied before she could slam the brakes on it.

Emma slammed a door shut on that thought. Hating Victoria was easy when she was just an arrogant snob in expensive pants. Handing her that coffee and seeing her like that had thrown a wrench into the whole damn engine. Because an obstacle didn't sit in the dark looking wrecked, and an obstacle certainly didn't look up with red-rimmed eyes and say I’m sorry. Now Victoria was a person, which was deeply inconvenient. Especially when that person had a face like Victoria’s.

When Emma padded down to the kitchen in the morning—expertly dodging the creaky floorboard on the landing that always woke up the guests in Room 3—she headed straight for the pantry to prep the dough.

She pulled the wooden door open, reached blindly for the shelf where the cardamom jars had lived for fifteen years, and grabbed a tin of cayenne pepper instead.

Emma blinked, her hand stalling in mid-air. She looked at the shelves.

Every single jar, tin, and plastic tub had been moved. The chaotic, intuitive ecosystem of her pantry was gone, replaced by a sterile, military-grade grid. Allspice, Baking Powder, Brown Sugar, Cardamom, Cinnamon.

She had alphabetized the fucking spices.

Emma’s gaze dropped to the bottom shelf, where her wooden crates of stone-ground rye were supposed to be. Sitting in their place were four bright red, plastic-wrapped bags of industrial baking flour.

Emma stared at them, her blood pressure spiking through the roof. She spun around just as Victoria walked into the kitchen, wearing a cream blouse tucked into dark wool slacks, an iPad gripped in one hand.