Page 86 of Better When Shared
"Jesus," Tristan muttered, leaning forward to peer through the windshield. His jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping beneath his skin. "I can barely see the road."
We crept along at a careful pace, the Range Rover's suspension absorbing the worst of the water-filled potholes. Through the rain-streaked side windows, I could make out stone walls andsheep huddled under trees, the whole countryside looking like it was dissolving back into primordial swamp.
The bridge appeared out of the storm like something from a disaster movie. Just hours ago, the narrow stone arch had spanned a quiet stream, but now it was submerged under rushing brown water, carrying branches and debris downstream with frightening force.
"Fuck," Tristan breathed, bringing the vehicle to a complete stop. His hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel as he stared at the impassable crossing. "We can't get through."
"Could we go around?" I asked.
He said nothing, making a sharp three-point turn and heading back the way we'd come. Jaw tight, he navigated a series of increasingly narrow lanes with the confidence of someone who'd grown up in this countryside. Stone walls pressed close on either side.
"I know somewhere we can wait out the storm," Tristan finally said. "One of my family's properties."
"You have a hotel out here?" I asked, confused. I didn't remember seeing that on the website. Everything the Bancroft family owned was posh, exclusive, and situated in the best neighborhoods.
"It's not currently open," he said.
The inn appeared through the rain like a mirage, all honey-colored stone and mullioned windows straight out of a fairy tale. It was small compared to the hotel we'd been staying in, clearly old, and possibly deserted. No cars in the muddy courtyard, no lights in the windows, no signs of life.
"What is this place?" I asked as Tristan pulled into the empty lot.
"The Bancroft Inn." The note of sadness in his voice made my pulse quicken. "Family property. It's been closed while we plan renovations, but..." He trailed off, staring at the building through the rain-streaked windshield. "There are caretakers who watch over the place. They are in the back cottage. Should be clean and dry."
"Clean and dry is all I want right now," I said, patting his wet thigh. His mouth was a resigned line, but I felt hope surging. Alone at a quaint, lovely little inn. No staff, no silly rules. Just the three of us.
I didn't hate that plan.
Chapter 9
Tristan
The storm only seemed to get worse. Sheets of rain slapped the ground hard enough to bounce back, and the wind turned every tree branch into a battering ram. A quick trip to the caretaker's cottage to check in with Mr. and Mrs. Donnelly left my hair plastered to my scalp and my shoes at a level of squelch I hadn't experienced since jumping in puddles as a boy.
The Donnellys had been caretakers since my grandfather had passed when I was a teenager, and they'd fussed over me like I was their grandchild, loading me up with a big basket of provisions and a bag of dry clothes and clean sheets, both covered in big plastic garbage bags to weather the storm.
News of flooded bridges had traveled fast across the countryside, and Mr. Donnelly insisted we stay the night instead of trying to drive in this mess.
Which meant I was stuck here. With temptation.
I shook off my jacket in the entryway, taking in the worn red carpet and the slight odor of mildew under the lavender as I peeled the drenched garbage bag off of the basket of food, trying not to drip water everywhere, which was an impossible task. I kicked off my wet shoes and socks and left them by the door to dry, and looked around.
The only light came from the sitting room to the left of the lobby, where the crackle of fire blended with the soft sound of voices.
They'd made themselves at home.
Juniper was curled in the biggest armchair, wrapped up in a soft wool blanket. She looked comfortable, bare shoulders peeking out. Marco stood with his back to the fire, hands outstretched, letting the heat bake his jeans dry. His shirt had dried to a snug fit that made his shoulders look even broader, if such a thing was possible. And Juniper's dress was hanging over the fireplace, drying, which could mean only one thing. She was naked under that blanket.
Juniper noticed me first. "Success?"
"Sort of," I said, holding up the basket and bag. "The caretakers say the roads are impassable. We're officially marooned, but they gave us provisions." Her gaze dropped to the basket in my hand. "Is that dinner?"
"Chicken stew and some things for breakfast, I believe. They said there are some dry goods in the pantry as well, and it should all be good to use. Mrs. Donnelly uses this oven for bakingsince the one in the cottage is too small." I opened the bag of clothes and held up a pile of track pants, t-shirts, and jumpers, all emblazoned with brightly colored logos of sports teams. "And these, courtesy of Mrs. Donnelly's son. He's in uni." I held up a neon-colored tracksuit. "Apparently, he has terrible fashion sense."
Marco grinned, showing off his charming dimples. "Anything is an improvement over wet denim."
I dropped the supplies on the sideboard and grabbed a stack of clothing for myself.
"I'll change upstairs," I said.
