I walk back downstairs to find the other bedrooms. The sitting room is so cozy it practically calls to me to sit down, put my feet up, and fall asleep for the rest of the day. As inviting as that is, I know from my research that if I sit down now, I’ll just make this jet lag worse and I’ll be awake all night. I don’t want that. My body feels dirty and stiff, so I yell upstairs to the girls that I’m going to shower.
I open a door beyond the kitchen, and I find another bedroom. I toss my lonely bag on the bed and open the connecting door to the bathroom. There’s a pile of fluffy towels aside the shower and fresh robes hanging behind the bathroom door. When I turn on the hot water in the shower, I spy several bottles of fancy shampoo and bodywash. When the bathroom is filled with steam, I step onto the cold tiles and let the warm water flow over me. The bathroom fills up with the rich scents of the gardenia body wash, and I feel every muscle in my body loosening. All the tension from the flight and anxiety about traveling so far for the very first time in my life melts away. If this bathroom is any indication of the attention to detail we’ll find in this house, it’s going to be an awesome visit.
I stay too long in the shower, practically falling asleep and also dreading trying to figure out whatever I’ll wear, but finally the lure of a hot cup of tea forces me to turn off the shower and slip into the bathrobe. No need to worry about clothes just yet, since it’s just me and girls.
When I step into the bedroom, I realize that the house is freezing. The robe I’m wearing barely keeps me warm, and these old homes don’t have the best insulation. The glass in the single paned windows look as brittle as pulled sugar, and the gaps in the old windows carry a steady draught through the room. At least my room has its own fireplace and a small stash of wood. I’m looking forward to that. Obviously I’m not going to spend a lot of time in my bedroom, but I can’t help but fantasize about reading my book next to the fire before bed with a hot mug of cocoa. And the bed is so luxuriously made, with a thick white duvet that looks like heaven.
My little daydream of a warm fire is interrupted when I hear a knock at the front door. My heart lifts and I rush out of the bedroom into the hallway. Maybe it’s the airport sending my bag. It hardly feels possible that I could have such great luck.
“I’ve got it, I’ve got it!” I call out as I run through the kitchen. I look back and see Deb and Lillian standing at the counter with cups of tea. Just as my hand reaches out to unlock the door, I hear a key in the lock and the door swings open. I startle, and then the smile that had been stretched across my face falls. My stomach sits in my throat and my heart beats like a snare drum in my chest. I realize right away that the man standing in front of me is not airport staff.
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit!
That’s the only word that pops into my head and repeats itself like my new mantra. Instinctually, my hand flies up and pulls my robe closed at the neck, although I still feel totally vulnerable and self-conscious.
Towering before me is the very tall, very rugged, and extremely hot man whose cock I grabbed when fell on the plane. Recognition lights up his deep set eyes. His piercing gaze travels the length of my body then back to my face once again.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I demand, feeling completely naked. Damn this robe! And to make things worse, my freezing nipples are rock solid and point straight at him. I’m not sure which part of my body I should be covering. It’s all just there for him to ogle. And boy does he ogle. He doesn’t even have the decency to try to hide it. “And why are you just barging into our house?” I yell.
He looks just as shocked to see me as I am to see him. “Did you follow us?” I ask, feeling a slight hint of fear creep up my spine. Did he see me and my friends and peg us as unsuspecting tourists he could rob? I’ve watched enough true crime documentaries to know the deal. He probably marked us from the airport. Now it all makes sense. My bag! He surely stole my bag despite its obnoxious print. And inside that suitcase was the information about this house, including the code to the lockbox in front with the for sets of keys!
“Oh look,” he says, far too cheerily, “it’s the girl who molested me on the plane. If you wanted to grab my dick, all you had to do is ask.”
This can’t possibly be happening to me. I must have done something pretty damn horrible in another life to deserve this kind of luck. I quickly look around the room, trying to recall all the self-defense classes I’ve taken. I run over to the fireplace and grab the poker, wielding it like a sword. “Get the hell out!”
My friends run into the sitting room when they hear me yell. They freeze and take a step back when they see me swinging the poker at the large man in the doorway. I’m slightly aware that my robe has come loose at
