Whip It Good & Lick The Beater (Valentine’s Day At The Quylt House #1)

Chapter One

SHAY

THE HALLWAY IS too narrow for this many bags.

“Second door on the right!” One of the elderly B&B owners stands at the end of the hallway behind me.

“Second door on the right,” I call back.

I’d smile at her, but my hands are full, and my back faces her.

“Second on the right,” my best friend quips in my ear, through the phone wedged between my shoulder and cheek.

“Can you not?” I hiss at her, catching the bag sliding down my shoulder and gripping it in place.

“It’s nice of them to make sure you get to your room.” Tess’s coffee grinder buzzes sharply in my ear, then cuts off. “It saves me from worrying all weekend about you being safe since you’re stranded in some town where everyone in the diner goes quiet when you walk in.”

“I’m in a small southern town where I’m sure everyone knows everyone. I’ll be fine.”

“Stupid broken-down car,” she mutters.

I pass the first door, marked by a sign carved with the word “Office.”

“Second door.” The second voice is husky and low, belonging to the woman’s sister.

Wanda?

Wendy?

No. Wilma?

Yes. It was Wilma, the sister wearing the blood-red western shirt that matched her suede Stetson.

It’s a statement outfit, but it can’t compete with her sister’s Valentine-themed Kentucky Derby hat and tea dress.

What was her name?

Fiona?

Freya?

No. Faye?

Yes. It was Faye.

And can one person wear a thousand hearts? Because Faye comes pretty damn close. The hearts springing from her hat alone have to number near a hundred, and that doesn’t include her tea dress sprinkled with mini embroidered hearts.

“Got it.” I hope they take the hint and go, but even knowing them only long enough to check in, I doubt they pick up on hints—or choose not to.

“She has the spark.” The light, eager whisper carries down the hallway.

I’d ask who has what spark, if I cared, which I don’t because everything has gone wrong since I left my apartment.

Dropped my earbuds in my coffee.

Lost cell phone service in a dead zone.

Then got lost in the dead zone.

And now my car is sitting at a mechanic’s shop until Monday—and it’s only Friday morning.

“It’s rare to see the spark so quickly.” Wilma’s rough voice is quiet, but loud enough to reach me.

Like they purposely want me to hear whatever they’re going on about.

“When he walked in earlier, something in the air shifted.” The soft-spoken hostess doesn’t hide her excitement. “Like the room was waiting for someone else.”

Oh great, they’re loony, and I’m booked with them until my car is fixed.

Monday can’t come soon enough.

“And then in walks our someone else.” A faint clink of teacups punctuates the words.

They had better not be talking about me.

Why would they?

They aren’t.

Are they?

“She is his perfect match.” The words float across the hallway, light as a breeze.

Just. For. Me.

Don’t turn around.

Don’t turn around.

I twist anyway, my phone still wedged against my shoulder.

The two sisters stare at me, hands clasped around teacups, and smiles on their faces.

Well, sort of.

Wilma is trying to smile, but it looks painful.

These strangers are referring to me.

I’m the perfect match.

His perfect match.

Who the heck is he?

I don’t want to know.

Why did I choose the second week in February for my month-long trip? Valentine’s Day weekend, when love is on everyone’s mind.

Everyone but mine.

I have life goals.

That’s what I discovered when I realized editing someone else’s life had become easier than imagining my own.

And the day that hit, I knew waiting for the “right” moment had always been my way of staying in my comfort zone.

The comfort zone that kept me in a three-year relationship where love never even entered the equation.

The comfort zone that became my career—managing Tess’s business instead of investing in my own.

This trip isn’t about convenience or safety. This trip is about stepping out, taking the wheel, and actually living my life.

“You used to come in my door,” Tess pouts in my ear, and I almost miss it, caught up in my own thoughts.

“I can’t tell if you’re being dirty or serious.” I turn back to my destination.

Door two.

“Serious, but I see why you’d question it.”

Because she’s a pervert. But also sweet and kind, but shameless and wildly inappropriate. Exactly why I love her.

And her social media followers eat it up—every last awkward, cringe-inducing honest word.

“It used to be my videos you shot. Not some travel-around-the-country for random subjects. I used to be your subject.”

She’s pouting, but I know it’s only because she misses me. Not to stop me from my much-needed soul-searching plunge.

“It’s only a month. And I’m at my room.”

“That’s the door!” One of the older ladies shouts.

But amid the bags rustling, Tess in my ear, and panic disguised as irritation, it barely gets through.

I wave at the sisters watching me. Talk about attentive hospitality.

The bag slides down my arm—again. I catch it with my elbow and nearly drop the phone.

“Shit,” I curse.

“What? What happened?” And this one, refusing to let me check in without making sure I’m not murdered, might actually end up killing me.

“Nothing.” My fingers work the key free from the groove in my palm.

“The door should be open!” Again, I can’t tell who’s shouting at me anymore.

And between Tess and the hostesses, privacy is clearly not happening.

“Open the door,” Tess teases. “It’s open.”

I shift the phone higher on my shoulder as I turn the handle and push the door.

Cheers echo down the hallway.

Is it like this with every guest?

If so, they have an exhausting job.

“Thanks, ladies.” I quickly step inside and close the door behind me.

My fingers release the suitcases, and my shoulders relax, letting every last bag go. Thuds crash at my feet, but I don’t care. It’s well deserved after the shit show of a morning I’ve had.

I lean against the door and close my eyes.

“I paid you well, and I supplied unlimited coffee.” Tess is still in my ear. “Now you take video of strangers and hotel lamps.” Her espresso machine hisses.

“That lamp”—I grip the phone, lift my chin, sighing as relief spreads through my neck—“was a teapot mid-pour and the spout tilted into a stack of teacups.”

I’d caught a picture in a fancy living room before the hostesses arrived.

“Lame.” The espresso machine gurgles as if agreeing with her.

“It wasn’t lame. It was amazing.”

“Ugh.” The faint rush of liquid pouring hums in my ear.

I chuckle, but my tone grows serious. “You know my break from work has nothing to do with you.”

She’s quiet for a moment, and I know it’s because she does know.

“A good lineup of meaningless fucks would’ve solved your problem.” As expected, she sidesteps it with raunchy humour.

“Not my style.”

“Could’ve added some mental images to your clit closet.”

Her female version of a spank bank.

“Lord knows, I have my own finger vault full of memories and the perfect tools to achieve mind-blowing orgasms.”

“You’re getting off track.”

“Am I?” She sighs, her mug tapping on the counter through the receiver. “My socials tanked after you left. My engagement has disappeared. My numbers went with you.”

“You’re lying.” A deliciously decadent scent attacks my nostrils.

Woody, warm, like cedar smoldering in a fire.

Hints of something darker—smoke? Black pepper?

Whatever it is, it lingers.

I like it.

“How would you know?” A swoosh of milk frothing hisses through the speaker. “You don’t even go on social media.”

“I go on it.”

Is the bathroom fan humming? Or is it the pipes?

“Liar. Name the last time.”

The scheduled videos I uploaded for her a couple of weeks ago.

Yeah, I’m not telling her that.

I step over the pile of bags. “Listen, I’m safely in my room, so I’m going to get settled.”

“Um. No. FaceTime me. I want to see the room.”

I glance around. Floral wallpaper. Ruffled patterned curtains. Lace-trimmed pillows. It’s all shades of pinks, and every surface is dotted with porcelain trinkets and tiny flower vases that match the wallpaper.

“It’s an old-school floral explosion.”

“Now I need to see it.”

“Alright, just a second.” I press the camera button and, as I walk under the bathroom threshold, join at the same time, straight into a wall of warm, very solid humanity.

I yelp.

The phone drops, and I watch it hit the floor at my feet. And the feet of a complete stranger. Large, bare feet with a sprinkle of dark hair.

It’s just a flash of a moment before I stumble, and an arm slips around my waist. It catches me and pulls me flush against warmth that burns every place it touches.

And that smell here. That smell is strong, overpowering, and intoxicating.

“Whoa.” The word slides out of the stranger like dark velvet, rich and deep.

I freeze, locked against a bare, warm, muscular chest, slick with water. Rock-hard muscles ripple under my palms.

I don’t pull away—can’t even look away.

Every inch of skin between us burns in my vision. A chest so smooth it looks sculpted from wax. The stomach below holds a hint of natural texture, soft ridges, and faint lines that make him all real. But the V dips impossibly low...

He’s not wearing a towel.

He’s unmistakably naked.

My brain short-circuits. Longer than I expect.

“You alright?” Each syllable drifts over me like honey, thicker and sexier than before.

Sexier?

Shit. What’s wrong with me?

I slowly look up, still drinking in every inch of him. If my mind were anything like Tess’s, I’d be adding every detail to my clit closet.

Subconsciously, I may very well be doing that.

Right now.

At this moment.

His shoulder ripples when he exhales, and veins flicker faintly along the surface of his throat.

Yup, I take in every tiny detail of him.

Then I meet his eyes. His beautiful dark eyes glimmer with amusement. And thick waves tumble over his forehead, wet and unrestrained. It’s almost enough to undo me.

“You hurt anywhere?”

“I—” The single word squeaks out of me.

His gorgeous grin deepens. “I can’t tell if that’s a yes or a no.”

It’s a no.

Did I say it, though?