With our family's legacy, Meyers B &B, in the flailing hands of me, Sam Meyers, and my sister Wynne, we're determined to revive the place. We've started a series of blind-date cooking classes, and taken on our first boarder. Granddad is even now rolling in his grave.
Signed up for the class is our new guest, Aaron Saunders, a Californian transplant who's distractingly handsome and clearly up to no good. I can't quite figure him out. He blew into town and has been relentless in his search for…something. The sexy sneak is intriguing. And we've had a steamy moment. Or two. But now I can't stop wondering why he's searching in secret.
From the library to my own backyard, Aaron leaves no stone unturned or record book unopened. He's definitely gotten my attention. But that might not be the only thing he's after.
Aaron extracted an oversize book from the bottom shelf. He settled the book on his knees and traced a fingertip over the cover.
“I knew that woman lied. I asked her specifically for this. I mean, how much effort would it take to turn her chair and actually look?” Aaron did precisely that, glancing over his shoulder at me, opaque eyes hidden behind his glasses. He had a fussy secretary vibe going, which I found inappropriately appealing. “I really haven’t broken any laws, you know, but with you here, maybe I’ve broken a Connecticut law.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I have permission to be here—but not with a guest. Maybe I should call the police? What are you doing in St. Joe’s after-hours, Mr. Meyers?”
“The hell if I know.”
He flipped the cover of the ledger gently. Leather creaked and Aaron breathed, “Ah. The smell of secrets.”
Curiosity moved my feet closer to his chair. “All I smell is aftershave.”
I peered over his shoulder. Loopy handwriting filled the page. The words were impossible to make out, and with Aaron so close, I wasn’t really interested.
He read decisively, his light streaking across pages in a blur—obviously looking for something specific and not reading for any meaning.
How old was he? I’d have to take a peek at Wynne’s check-in records. She said she’d photocopied his license, but she didn’t have a great track record for that sort of thing. Aaron couldn’t be over thirty. I’d be surprised if he was even twenty-five. He might even be Claire’s age.
He examined the next page and my gaze fell on the vulnerable strip of skin between his collar and his cap. His nape had looked exactly the same last night when he’d knelt at my feet, his thick hair soft and neat. And like the night before, Aaron was crotch height in front of me. I could lay my hand on the top of his head, or grip his neck and hold him against my thighs. I could feel his breath against my groin, and his mouth closing on my skin.
As Aaron nodded in fascination over some mystery I couldn’t begin to give two shits about now, my pulse surged, and Claire’s siren song clamored in my ears. Just insert tab A into slot B.
He was young, attractive and single. He was from California, a state that screamed promiscuity to my sheltered mind. I could have him. Easily.
I had to clench my fist to keep from touching his neck.
I didn’t even know the guy—didn’t even like him, or trust him—but damn, my dick didn’t care because Aaron had put it best, Who says you have to get married to catch up?
I hadn’t had sex in so long. It would take a lot of time to catch up.
Sweat broke on my upper lip as I imagined sticking my tab into whatever wet slot Aaron offered. He excited me. Being alone in the dark church with him excited me more. We could fuck right in the office, no one would know. A miracle in Smithfield. It could be our little secret. And we could walk away when we were done.
He licked his lip as he read and I squeezed my fist tighter. “Jesus.”
Aaron shot me a questioning look and I forced myself to care about the book resting in his slender hands and not the blood pounding into my crotch.
I cleared my throat. “So, uh, what are you looking for anyway?”