Page 92 of Better When Shared
The aftermath was immediate and brutal. Shame crashed over me like ice water as I stood there dripping and shaking, the evidence of my loss of control coating my fingers and stomach.
This was who I really was underneath all the careful grooming and professional polish: a man so desperate that he'd masturbate against his bedroom door while fantasizing about fucking a goddamn married couple.
I cleaned myself up with mechanical precision. But even after I was clean and settled in bed again, I could still could still hear the invitation in Juniper's voice.
Tomorrow we'd return to Bath. Tomorrow I'd be Tristan Bancroft, CEO, again—composed and controlled and safely distant from temptations I couldn't handle.
Chapter 11
Marco
I woke to sunlight streaming through the guest room's beautiful mullioned windows. It was the kind of crisp English morning that made the storm feel like a fever dream. Juniper rolled over, still asleep, and pulled the blanket over her head. I was too restless to sleep more.
Pulling on too-tight sweatpants and a henley from the spare clothes the caretakers had loaned us, I padded downstairs in bare feet. The inn felt different in daylight—warmer, more welcoming, like it was shaking off decades of abandonment.
I dug into the basket the caretakers had given Tristan last night and found fresh eggs and real butter, and a small bag of coffee. It would pair perfectly with the bread Juniper had sitting in the fridge, ready to bake.
The kitchen was beautiful, morning light turning the stone countertops warm and honey-colored. I moved through thespace with growing confidence, locating a coffee press behind dusty preserving jars and setting water to boil on the massive Aga range, which was a little finicky, but functional. I preheated the oven, pulling out the bread Juniper had made to let it rise in the warmth by the stove.
This place could be incredible. Not the sterile perfection of modern luxury hotels like the Bancroft in Bath, but something better—authentic character paired with thoughtful comfort. Guests who wanted to feel connected to history, to landscape, to something real instead of manufactured. Juniper and I had stayed up late talking through ideas.
The oven had heated beautifully, radiating a delicious, steady warmth. I slid in the bread. The scent filled the kitchen—cinnamon and butter and the promise of mornings that started slowly, with intention.
I was cracking eggs into a heavy skillet when footsteps on the stairs announced I was no longer alone. Juniper appeared first, wild curls still mussed from sleep and wearing an oversized sweatshirt that fell to mid-thigh. She moved like a cat, all fluid grace and barely contained energy, her dark eyes immediately finding mine across the kitchen.
"Domestic as hell," she said, but her smile was pure appreciation. "I could get used to waking up to this."
Tristan's footsteps were more measured, each step careful and controlled even first thing in the morning. When he appeared inthe doorway, freshly showered and dressed in his clothes that he'd worn before the storm.
Had someone pressed his shirt? How was it not wrinkly as hell? Gone was the messy, wild Tristan of last night. He was clean, polished, and put together once again. It felt like a step back.
But his eyes gave him away. They moved immediately to Juniper, taking in the way her borrowed sweatshirt clung to her curves, before darting to me with something that might have been hunger. He caught himself and looked away.
"Good morning," he said. "I hope the accommodations were adequate."
I bit back a grin at his formal tone. Like we were hotel guests instead of three people who'd been dancing around our need to fuck each other since the moment we'd met. "Perfect. Found enough for a hearty breakfast in that basket—looks like your caretakers take good care of you."
"Mrs. Donnelly is very thorough," he agreed, accepting the coffee I handed him with a careful precision that kept our fingers from touching. But I caught the way his nostrils flared at the scent of brewing caffeine, the slight softening around his eyes that suggested genuine appreciation.
We ate in relative quiet, the kind of comfortable domesticity that felt both natural and charged with possibility. Tristan's guard was up, but I could see cracks forming every time Juniper laughed or when he caught me watching him with obviousappreciation. His shoulders relaxed slightly with each bite, his posture losing some of its rigid formality.
That's when Juniper struck.
"So," she said, pulling her tablet from somewhere and setting it on the scrubbed wooden table with the kind of casual confidence that had first made me fall for her. "We have a proposal for you."
Tristan's coffee cup paused halfway to his lips, and he swallowed hard. "A proposal?"
From the panic in his expression, I'd bet money that he thought she was pitching sex, but we'd talked late into the night about another idea.
"A proposal. For this place. We want to help you bring it back to life. That's our specialty, you know. Historic properties that need a little love and some good ideas." She pulled out her sketchbook, flipping open to the sketches she'd drawn while we cuddled in bed, talking late into the night.
I watched his face change as he took in her drawings, the careful way she'd preserved architectural details while adding modern necessities. His mask of polite disinterest slipped, replaced by something that looked dangerously like genuine excitement.
"These are remarkable," he said, leaning forward. "But the cost?"
"We can work up a full proposal," I said. "Everything's solvable with the right approach."
Tristan's eyes met mine across the table, and I could practically see his mind working, analyzing possibilities and calculating risks with the kind of intensity he probably brought to every business decision. But there was something else there too—genuine excitement for a project that would let him create instead of just manage.
