Page 9
She turned, ignoring the curious stares of the smoking couple, and pushed her way back into the lounge. The sudden warmth of the room felt suffocating. She walked over to her abandoned stool at the marble bar. Her pint of bitter was sitting exactly where she had left it, the condensation pooling on the coaster.
Just pay the tab, walk to the truck, and drive home, she ordered herself. Be an adult.
She dug into the front pocket of her jeans, pulling out a crumpled ten-pound note. She smoothed it onto the counter, nodding at the bartender to keep the change.
She turned toward the exit. The revolving brass doors of the lobby promised safety. They promised a quiet drive back to Rosebrook, a lonely bed, and the suffocating reality of Joe's empty house.
Emma paused in the middle of the plush carpet. Her fingers brushed the edge of her chest pocket, tracing the rigid outline of the keycard.
Go home to what? she thought, the grief and exhaustion suddenly clawing at her throat. To the silence? To pacing the kitchen floorboards until morning? Cause there’s no way you’re getting any sleep after this.
She thought about the arrogant curve of the stranger's mouth. She thought about the heavy, dark gaze, the effortless way those hands had pulled her in, and the unapologetic heat of that kiss against the wet brick wall. For ten minutes, Emma hadn't thought about Joe. She hadn't thought about the B&B, or the will, or the impending ruin of her life. She had just existed, totally consumed by the physical weight of being wanted by someone so intensely present.
"Fuck it," Emma whispered.
She pivoted on her heel, turning her back on the lobby doors, and walked directly toward the bank of private elevators.
The cabin moved upwards with absolute silence, but the blood pounded in her ears.
She stood staring at the polished steel doors, her fingers turning the matte-black keycard over and over. A puddle of rainwater was slowly forming around the soles of her scuffed boots. Her flannel shirt clung to her shoulders, damp and out of place in the sterile luxury of the Oakbridge Grand Hotel.
Common sense told her to press the button for the lobby. But as the elevator glided upward, all Emma could feel was the phantom weight of those manicured hands in her hair and the ruinous taste of expensive whiskey on her tongue.
The chime sounded. The doors slid apart.
Emma stepped onto a thick carpet that swallowed the sound of her boots. The penthouse door stood at the end of the hall. She didn't hesitate. She pressed the plastic card to the sensor, heard the metallic click, and pushed the heavy door open.
The suite was vast, shadowed, and smelled faintly of cedar and rain. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a sweeping view of the storm over the dark countryside, but Emma’s eyes locked immediately on the center of the room.
The woman stood by the marble console. She had hung up her blazer, leaving only a gray shirt tucked clean into her slacks as she poured a measure of Macallan. She didn't look up when the latch clicked shut, but the line of her back went stiff.
"I was beginning to wonder if you got lost," she murmured, her deep voice carrying effortlessly across the quiet room.
Emma leaned her shoulders against the heavy door, crossing her arms over her chest to hide the slight tremor in her hands. The intimidation factor of this woman was raw, but Emma refused to let it show. A stubborn, territorial heat flared in her stomach.
"I was just deciding if you were worth the trip up," Emma lied, her voice raspy.
The woman finally turned. She lifted the glass to her lips, taking a slow sip. Her dark eyes tracked across the room, pinning Emma against the wood. The corner of her mouth ticked upward in a razor smirk.
"And?" she asked. "What is the verdict?"
Emma pushed off the door. She closed the distance between them with long strides. She didn't stop until her boots bumped the tips of the woman's shoes. Up close, Emma had to tilt her head slightly to meet her gaze, a physical reminder of the stranger’s commanding presence.
Emma reached out, wrapping her hand around the crystal tumbler, pulling the glass from her relaxed grip, and took a drink of the burning liquor before setting the tumbler onto the marble console with a definitive thud.
"The verdict is that you talk a bit too much," Emma said softly.
Dark eyes flared. Before she could formulate a response, Emma stepped into her space and kissed her.
Emma’s hands found the lapels of the blouse, gripping the delicate fabric with a rough confidence. She walked the older woman backward until her spine hit the wall beside the windows. The impact was solid, stealing a sharp breath from her throat.
Emma capitalized on the opening. She deepened the kiss, her tongue sweeping past soft lips with a demanding rhythm. She tasted of whiskey and mint, her mouth hot and demanding under Emma’s. Emma swallowed the moan that vibrated in the stranger's chest, a surge of adrenaline flooding her system. She wanted to break through that cool, effortless poise. She wanted to see her breathless and messy.
Manicured hands slid up Emma’s arms, nails biting through the damp cotton of the flannel before the grip tightened on Emma’s shoulders. With a sharp twist of her hips, the woman shoved back, using Emma’s own momentum to spin them until Emma’s spine hit the wall.
"Impatient," she whispered against her mouth, her breath hot on Emma’s skin. She caught Emma’s lower lip between her teeth, biting down just hard enough to elicit a quiet gasp.
"You started it," Emma shot back, her green eyes blazing as she looked up.
