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An elderly woman appears from behind a swinging door. She ambles to the front desk and plops onto a stool. Her wrinkled fingers fan through a stack of papers. I wait for her to greet us, about ready to twiddle my thumbs.
After what feels like twenty minutes, she peers up at us from her busy work. Her shrewd gaze moves from me to Grace, who’s currently fascinated by a brass squirrel. “What brings you to Butter Bread Inn?”
“We’re hoping to get a room.” I paste on my signature grin that brings in the big bucks. Research has proven that older ladies find me irresistible.
“Mhmm. I saw you two canoodling out front.” Her nasally voice packs a scolding punch that makes me want to cower.
Grace sidles up beside me, appearing done with her exploring. Her arm loops through mine in a fluid maneuver meant for established couples. “He’s very charming. I allow him to sneak a smooch in public every now and then.”
“Can’t keep your hands off each other. I remember those days.” The woman clutches her palms to her chest and sighs. “Young love is in fresh bloom.”
My dick is ready to tuck and cover and become an internal organ. “Uh, okay. Do you have anything available for us, ma’am?”
“Doris,” she provides.
“Doris,” I repeat automatically. “I’m Garrett and my better half is Grace. We’d love to stay at your lovely bed and breakfast for the night.”
She perches a pair of bright red glasses on her nose. “Ah, you’re married?”
I balk, seconds away from blasting a Garrett-shaped hole in the door. Beyond the sudden ringing in my ears, I can hear the blame for her assumption. The error is mine for phrasing our introduction in such a way. That doesn’t mean her question is easier to choke down.
Grace must catch the sheer panic splashed on my features. She pats my shoulder before smiling at Doris. “Is marriage a requirement?”
“Just a preference.” Her wrinkled face pinches. “We’re aware that martial norms in society have changed. Respect for the sacred bond between a husband and wife isn’t what it used to be. That doesn’t mean we can’t wish people still honored traditions.”
“Well, in that case.” I shelf my unnecessary alarm and prop a bent elbow on the counter. “This is our first time together.”
“Oh! You’re newlyweds. How splendid.” That drawn conclusion flips her tune to candy hearts and riding off into the sunset.
Grace makes a strangled noise in her throat. “Um, not—”
“No further explanation needed, dear. I’m sure you’re in a rush to experience the physical joining between body and soul.” Doris opens a leatherbound ledger and begins writing. “We have somewhat of a honeymoon suite down the hall. It’s the only one on this floor. Don’t worry about disturbing your neighbors, or me for that matter. I can’t hear much these days. Harold might as well be deaf without his aides, which he refuses to wear after dinner. Says he likes the quiet.”
“Lucky us.” I accept the record book she slides in front of me to jot down the missing details on the page.
She reviews the amenities and price, going into detail about incidental fees if we’re careless during our shtupping. Her words, not mine. “Last but not least, there will be freshly baked bread in the morning after you put a bun in her oven.”
I choke on my spit. “Bit soon for that.”
“That’s what you think,” she titters. “Your consummation hasn’t begun. Remember to be considerate of her needs, champ. The female’s orgasm will speed the process along.”
Sweat prickles my scalp. I’m suddenly feeling like this is the very last place we should have sex. “Noted.”
Doris passes me a skeleton key. “Don’t lose that. It’s our only copy.”
“Looks like it.” I study the rusty metal behemoth like the foreign object it is. “Never thought I’d use one to actually open a lock.”
Shetsks. “Such a shame. Those futuristic card readers have ruined the simple joy of entering a room.”
“Isn’t that the truth,” I mutter purely for her benefit and return the ledger to her.
Her narrowed gaze scans the information I provided. “Alrighty, you’re all checked in. Enjoy yourselves, love birds.”
“We plan to,” Grace croons.
Just as we’re turning to the hallway, her voice halts our progress. “Hold your horses for a moment.”
My gut lurches at the possibility of her discovering our farce. “Problem?”
