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And lying under him, she felt both relaxed and indulgent.
She imagined the lovely cedar chest at the foot of the bed held blankets and throws, and the double mahogany six-panel doors opened to his closet.
She’d still bet that imaginary million he had a suit in there very close to her vision.
She’d gotten a glimpse through the open door to the en suite and its big freestanding claw-foot tub. But only a glimpse, as he’d been dragging her clothes off as he pulled her into the bedroom.
“You’re thinking again.”
“Not really thinking. More admiring. This is a beautiful room. If the third-floor turret room’s a hideaway, this is a sanctuary. You don’t work in here.”
“Not if I can help it.”
“It’s a lot, what you do.” Absently, she toyed with his hair. “It makes my job easier.”
“How’s that?”
“Most guests who come into Après are happy. They’ve had a spatreatment, or taken a hike, had an adventure or a good meal. They’re just looking to continue the happy over a drink. The service shines, and that comes down from the top. The details shine, and ditto. It spreads out to the community when guests go into town, wander around the shops. Anytime I help out at Crafty Arts I see guests come in. And they rarely leave empty-handed.
“So it’s a lot, what you do.” Relaxed, so relaxed she realized if she closed her eyes she’d drop straight into sleep, she gave his back a last stroke. “I’ve been awhile. I should go.”
“You owe me dinner. I took a couple of steaks out of the freezer when you were out on your phone. I’ll grill them. You can handle the rest and we’ll call it even.”
“The rest? What’s the rest?”
“It’s steak on the grill, Morgan. You do something with potatoes.”
He wanted her to stay for dinner, and that was wonderful. But. “I really only know how to do two somethings with potatoes that don’t come frozen in a bag, and only one thing I’ve done more than once. And I usually have supervision.”
“You’ll wing it.”
“I’ll wing it.”
Later, she got an up-close look at the bathroom and enjoyed a sexy, steamy interlude in the biggest shower she’d ever seen outside of HGTV.
She could regret she hadn’t brought so much as a tube of lipstick, but he’d seen the rest of her naked anyway.
Then she got a look at the kitchen.
“Oh, this is so smart. Open this up, because this is how people live now, and still respect the origins. It’s what Gram and my mother did with the Tudor. Do you cook a lot? Because this is a very scary stove.”
“Not a lot, no. Enough to get by.”
“My getting by used to be a salad, takeout, or order in.”
“With frozen potatoes.”
“My Tater Tots are excellent. I can make pork chops. It’s my one thing. And Mexican potatoes—they’re spicy.”
“I like spicy.”
She wandered to the glass doors. “Your back gardens are fabulous. And you have herbs, so I can use fresh. It’s Nina’s mother’s recipe, but the problem is she—and everyone in my house—doesn’t understand or believe in using precise measurements.”
“You don’t measure behind the bar,” he pointed out.
“Don’t attack me with logic when I’m obsessing over potatoes. Where are they?”
He pointed to a lower cabinet, where she found wire baskets and red potatoes.
