Page 89 of Better When Shared
"What's the naughtiest thing you've ever done?" I asked suddenly, picturing them naked in that pool.
She went another direction with her answer. "I shoplifted lipstick once. I was fourteen. The shop lady caught me, of course, and made me promise never to do it again. Then she let me keep the lipstick." She gave a little shrug. "Sometimes you have to break the rules, or you never get what you want."
"I don't know what I want," I said, surprising both of us.
She shook her head. "That's a lie. You just don't want to want it."
She turned away, then moving to the sink to wash her hands. I stood rooted to the spot, feeling as if the ground had shifted under me.
The dough would rise in an hour. I needed to get out of this room.
But as I turned, Marco padded in, wearing only sweats and a sleeveless shirt that showed every inch of his tan, cut arms. He looked at Juniper, then at me, then at the bowl on the counter. "You two going to open a bakery?"
Juniper smiled, pure mischief. "I'm teaching him the fine art of breakfast."
Marco crossed the kitchen, putting an arm around Juniper's waist. "You've corrupted the CEO of the Bancroft Group. He's covered in flour. How will he ever recover?"
She leaned into his side, comfortable and open, and let him feed her a dab of dough from his finger. Marco's gaze slid over to me, the look heavy with intent.
"Dinner?" Marco asked, and Juniper startled, running to the stove to check on the simmering stew.
I watched them spring into action with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine. Marco set the table while Juniper dished the stew into bowls, barefoot and wearing an oversized Bath City Football Club jumper like it was a glamorous dress. Her hair was a mess of dark curls that made her look wild and elemental. I decanteda wine from the collection in the pantry, letting it breathe in the only glass pitcher we could find, and sliced the baguette with a bread knife that probably predated the Queen's coronation.
We ate in the little dining room where my grandfather used to serve breakfast to guests. The storm still raged outside, the inn creaking and sighing around us. Marco did most of the talking at first, launching into a monologue about the construction of the building, the timber framing, the attention to detail in the wainscoting. "You can feel the centuries in these walls," he said, running his palm along the grain of the table.
"It's beautiful," Juniper said, clearly enjoying her husband's monologue.
Marco leaned in. "Do you ever think about reopening this place? Make it the crown jewel of the Bancroft collection?"
"Wouldn't work," I said, chewing stew. "Too remote. Too expensive to renovate. No one wants to drive two hours for a haunted country inn unless it's got a Michelin star and a celebrity chef attached."
"Haunted?" Juniper's eyes lit up. "Don't tease me. Is there a ghost?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Every English country house has at least one. Ours is Lady Eleanor. She's supposed to wander the halls in a white dress, weeping for her dead lover."
Juniper clapped her hands, delighted. "That's so much better than the ones that just rattle chains."
Marco's gaze fixed on me. "Did you ever see her?"
I shook my head. "No ghosts. Just drafty windows and overactive imaginations."
They laughed together, and I smiled, warmth spreading through my chest despite the chill in the air.
The wine made everything blurrier, the edges softer. By the second bottle, we were leaning in, sharing stories, our arms and knees brushing under the table. Marco's hand landed on mine once, as he made an enthusiastic point about the inn's original stone fireplace, and lingered just a second too long.
Juniper leaned in, eying my reaction. "Did you ever bring girls here?" she asked, swirling her wine. "Or boys?"
The question knocked the breath out of me. "No," I said. "It wasn't that kind of place. And I'm not that kind of man."
She tilted her head. "Noted. I'm sorry we pushed a little. We're both just really into you. You intrigue us."
"You barely know me."
She pursed her lips, then took a little sip of her wine. "I think it's the way you appear so buttoned up and controlled, but craft art with such passion."
"It's not art, it's just therapy."
"Liar," Marco said. "The way you make things can only be called art."
