Page 11 of Illinois Innkeeper
The anticipation is practically killing me as I gaze up at him, waiting for him to spill it.
After dropping the wet towel on the floor, he says, “I always read the last chapter of a book first to make sure I’m going to like the ending.”
A bewildered laugh emerges from my lips. That oddity is nothing compared with feeling compelled to do so many of life’s mundane tasks in triplicate. But I appreciate that he tried to make me feel better, so I pretend to be appalled by his admission as I say, “Doing that spoils the surprise. That’s crazy.”
“I know, right?” he says good-naturedly.
“If you weren’t so phenomenal in bed, that might be a deal breaker,” I tease him.
He waggles his brows suggestively. “You think I’m good in bed?”
“The best,” I purr, tipping up to kiss him on the lips.
He groans as my breasts brush across his abdomen. Just when I begin to think he may not comment on how he thought our lovemaking session was, he thrills me by saying, “Right back at ya’.”
“In that case, I’d say it’s time for round two.” With those words, I turn to open the door and make a break for it.
He follows right behind me.
When I turn to face him, we topple naked, damp, and embracing back into the bed.
11
GRAHAM
Something’s terribly wrong. I can feel it. The phone call that woke us both up this morning and caused Miranda to untangle her soft, warm body from mine in order to answer it is not good news.
A gruff voice shouts, “Wilson!” loud enough for me to hear it, even though she’s holding the phone up to her ear. The brisk, one-sided monologue that ensues is just a jumble of mumbling from my perspective, but the caller has Miranda on high alert.
Miranda and I just had the best night of my entire life, but now she’s practically bristling with angry energy. She’s sitting upright in the bed with the sheet pulled up to cover her nakedness, and I can tell by her clipped responses that she is censoring her half of the conversation––most likely because I’m here.
“Yes, sir. I understand,” she says in a professional tone.
After listening for a bit longer, she says, “Thanks for the update, Chief. I’ll head right in to the station.”
As soon as she hangs up, I reach my arms out toward her, hoping she’ll rejoin me in bed for a few more minutes of cuddling. She ignores my gesture, opting instead to stand up, taking the bed’s sheet with her.
I watch, confused, as she carefully tucks the white sheet tight around her chest and begins snatching her clothes from the floor. After the night we had, her sudden modesty makes no sense.
Placing my elbow on the pillow, I lean up to ask, “Is everything okay?”
“No, not really,” she answers crisply as she stomps toward the bathroom.
Suddenly stopping, she turns to face me. Her complexion is overly pale when she asks in a flat tone, “Did you start the fire at your inn?”
Her question absolutely floors me. I gape at her, wondering if this is some type of sick joke, but it’s obvious from her strained expression that she is dead serious. My eyebrows snap together as I answer, “No, of course not. Why would you think that?”
Although she sags with a tiny bit of relief at my response, I can tell that she doesn’t fully believe me. She runs a hand through her hair before saying, “The investigators determined that the fire was arson, and they found an empty gas can with a pair of your work gloves in the inn’s shed.”
“They think that is proof that I started the fire?” I practically spit out the words. Disbelief swirls with anger as I add, “The inn is my home and my place of business. I’m bad about keeping the gas can for the lawn mower full, and there are probably twenty pairs of my work gloves spread throughout that shed.”
She nods, but her expression remains somber when she hints, “That’s not all.”
I stare at her, silently telling her to rip off the bandage.
“The tech team did a deep dive on your social media. Thanks to the Life Chat data breach they were able to locate private messages between you and someone named Xander where you threatened to burn down the inn for the insurance money,” she says in a quiet tone.
Blood swirls in my head as I slowly shake it back and forth. I get the distinct impression that I might pass out, even though I’ve never done so before.
