Page 7 of Cupid's Beau

“Just an observation.” He starts gathering glasses.

“I’m going to my room,” I announce. But I pause at the bottom of the stairs, listening to Jack’s footsteps above, trying not to think about how it felt to be in his arms - solid, warm, somehow exactly what I expected and nothing like it at all.

The old house creaks as he moves around in his room. I wonder if he’s up there regretting letting his guard down, even if it was only for a moment. Regretting coming here at all.

“Stop it,” I mutter to myself. “He’s just a guest. A temporary guest who happens to be incredibly famous and the sexiest manon earth…” I press my forehead against the wall. “And you’re talking to yourself again. Great.”

Upstairs, a door closes. I straighten up and head to my own room. I have a manuscript to work on. A manuscript that definitely won’t have any characters with impossible blue eyes.

* * *

I’ve been staring at my laptop for an hour, but instead of writing, I keep thinking about steady hands on my body, Jack’s warm smile, his blue eyes, the scent of him, and-

A soft knock at my door makes me jump.

“Neneh?” my mother’s voice calls. “Are you still up?”

I open the door to find her holding a box of Valentine’s decorations.

“No?” is my tentative response.

“Perfect, then you can help me.” She breezes past me, setting the box on my bed. “The Martins are arriving tomorrow - you remember, the couple who got engaged here last year? And with Mr. El- with Jack here too, we should make the inn look festive.”

“Ma, it’s almost midnight.”

“Exactly. Nice and quiet, we won’t bother anyone.” She starts pulling out paper hearts. “You know how your father gets about helping me decorate. No sense of romance, that man.”

I snort. “Says the woman who’s been dancing with him afterdinner for nearly thirty years.”

“That’s different.” She pauses, giving me a teasing look. “Speaking of dancing…”

“Don’t.”

“I’m just saying, you two looked-”

“Ma. Please.” I flop on my bed. “He’s a guest. A guest who probably won’t even be here for Valentine’s.”

She hums noncommittally. “We’ll see.”

2

Chapter 2

The kitchen is my favorite place to write in the morning. Something about the quiet, the smell of coffee, the way the sunrise turns the bay into liquid gold through the windows. For as long as I can remember, I’ve written at this scratched wooden table.

But this morning, my peaceful routine is interrupted by footsteps on the stairs.

Jack appears in the doorway, dressed in running gear - all black, probably designer, definitely not warm enough for a Massachusetts February. His hair is perfectly disheveled, cheeks flushed from the cold. Tall, broad, unshaven. A traitorous thought flashes through my mind: this is what he must look like after sex…

He stops short when he sees me.

“Morning,” I manage, very aware that I’m in my oldest sweater, hair piled in a messy bun, probably with pillow creases on my face, knowing my luck.

He nods, his guard firmly back in place. Jaw clenched, eyes cold. No trace of the man who danced with me last night.

“There’s fresh coffee,” I offer, because apparently, I can’t help turning into a blabber box around this man. “Mugs are in the cabinet above the sink.”

He hesitates for a moment, eyes flicking between the pot of coffee and my face, then moves to the cabinet. I try to focus on my laptop screen instead of how he makes my mother’s kitchen feel smaller.

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