Page 75 of Better When Shared
My chest tightened as I examined their clothing, trying to keep my expression cool and detached when all I wanted to do was march them into my office and question them like the police.
“Have you met my brother, Tristan?” Caleb said, glancing at me.
Marco offered a grin that tightened something in my gut. “Not officially. I’m Marco.” His shorts—my shorts—hugged every curve of his muscular thighs. “And this is my wife, Juniper.”
I forced my professional mask into place. “Mr. and Mrs. Torres. We’re delighted to host you as you explore the area.”
Juniper bounced on the balls of her feet. “When can we see the property? The one in the Cotswolds you told us about, Caleb? We’re thinking a rural location would be the perfect setting for a romantic Bindery retreat. Or perhaps we could find something along the sea? All the cliffs and moody skies. Very gothic.”
My heart thudded to a stop as I tried to keep up with the conversation without revealing that these two had somehow stumbled upon my secret. “You’re buying property here?”
“Caleb suggested it.” Marco winked. “He’s the one who took our funky idea and made it into something the Instagram crowd can’t get enough of. Now we have four hotels, and we’re working on a fifth!”
I tuned out their excited chatter as they kept talking about Caleb’s genius and his flourishing romance, focusing on unravelling the tight knot in my stomach.
Everything logical in me screamed to let the odd appearance of my handcrafted knitwear slide… but I needed to know where they’d gotten it.
“Where did you get that top?” The words tumbled out, too accusatory for the casual conversation I’d interrupted.
Juniper didn’t seem to notice, smiling boldly as her fingers traced the flower-like knots I’d spent hours perfecting. “Thecraftsmanship on these pieces is exquisite, don’t you think? We found them in this tiny pop-up shop back there—”
“Pop-up shop?” I interrupted, voice sharp.
“The one with the handmade bath salts? Like a craft fair. Gemma was running it,” Marco said.
I froze. Gemma was selling my private work? How? Why?
“What?” I rasped, fury and dread mingling in my chest to form something toxic.
Caleb cleared his throat. “I’m sure cousin Gemma has a reason for—”
“Those were not for sale,” I growled, heat surging.
Juniper frowned. “But there were such beautiful pieces, all laid out perfectly! Honestly, do you know who the artist is? We’d love to stock them at the gift shop in our new Palm Springs location. The Coachella crowd will go nuts for them.”
Sweat prickled on the back of my neck. This was too much, and I needed to get out of here and find Gemma and demand an explanation. How many other people were going to walk by sporting clothing I’d made? Something private and secret. I opened and closed my mouth, trying to find the right words, but only a choked sound came out.
“Mr. Bancroft, were you trying to tell us something? Are you choking?” Juniper’s gentle hand on my back and her concerned tone nearly tipped me into panic. Physical touch wasn’t common in my life.
I glanced at her, my eyes zeroing in on the way my crochet top curved around her full breasts, supporting and holding them while giving a subtle glimpse of the skin beneath. Unbidden, images of unravelling her, of pressing the yarn structure out of the way and dragging my tongue over…
I swallowed, pushing those thoughts away. She was a married woman, for fuck’s sake. “The clothing you’re wearing belongs to me.”
“Really?” Juniper said, looking down at herself. “I’m not sure this top would fit you.”
I let out a brittle laugh. “No, I mean I made them. But it’s an… er… personal project.”
Caleb barked laughter. “You crochet? Since when do you crochet?”
“It’s therapeutic,” I snapped, summoning my best corporate death stare even as my pulse fluttered from anger. Or from something wilder: attraction. “Technically, that piece is a mix of crochet and macrame. My therapist suggested it for stress management. I didn’t expect these two idiots to think my collection was a boutique.” Crap—too much information. And I shouldn’t have called them idiots.
Caleb’s eyebrows shot skyward.
Marco looked genuinely puzzled. “If you hadn’t laid it out so—”
“Enough!” my voice boomed across the lobby, my anxiety making it far too loud. Everyone flinched. “Those aren’t even men’s shorts.”
He glanced down. “What do you mean? The fit is amazing. The tension is perfect, and I love these macrame tassels.” He wiggled; the tassels danced across his muscled thighs. Heat flared in my cheeks as I forced myself to look away.
