five | emberly
FIVEEmberly
I blink as the door snaps shut behind Will.
Did I offend him with a compliment this time?
I wasn’t lying when I told Will the studio was perfect. Perfect because I won’t have to find a hotel and I’ll still be able to surprise the girls when they come back on Wednesday.
“Here’s the bathroom.” Iris has appointed herself as my official guide but the tour takes less than five minutes. The bathroom is smaller than my walk-in closet at home, but it has a toilet, a pedestal sink, and—thank goodness-something that resembles a shower.
The rest of the furnishings are sparse, an eclectic blend of antiques that somehow work together to make the space as warm and welcoming as a hug.
At least something feels welcoming because I’m sure not getting a make-yourself-at-home vibe from Will.
If he’s this gruff with all the guests, I can’t believe the resort books out a year in advance.
As I look around, I realize something rather important is missing.
“Iris? Is there, an, um, bed?”
Iris, who’d been discreetly brushing cobwebs off one of the lampshades, looks around.
“Maybe that pulls out.” She points to the red velvet fainting couch.
Even if it’s only a replica of a style popular in the Victorian era, I seriously doubt there’s a mattress hiding underneath the faded cushions.
A Hobbit-sized door is tucked underneath the slanted ceiling on the other side of the room, but since I’d practically have to bend in half to walk through it, I assume it’s a closet or storage space of some kind.
“I’ll ask your dad when he comes back.” If he intends to come back. It’s been twenty minutes, so I’m beginning to wonder. Will did mention blankets, though, so there has to be something to put them on.
Iris’s eyes go wide and then she giggles. “Will isn’t my dad. He’s my brother.”
The relief that sweeps through me makes no sense.
Woodsy Will Hartley is not my type. Not that I have a type, but if I did, it wouldn’t be someone so …
serious. Is he attractive? Yes. I travel for work, so I meet a lot of attractive guys.
Some of them even have blue eyes. Maybe not Will Hartley blue.
But still. Using actual words instead of eyebrows in order to communicate is also a plus.
A sharp whistle pierces the air and Iris bounds over to the window. Her face lights up.
“I … sorry … I have to go!”
The door slams shut behind her, too.
Out of curiosity, I walk over to the window. Two boys about Iris’s age are standing at the edge of the clearing. When she bounces into view, identical grins break out on their identical faces.
The trio disappears into the woods but I’m not concerned, because they pass Will on the way and all he does he give them a nod.
A brotherly nod.
Because he’s Iris’s brother.
I realize I’m smiling and … no. Their relationship doesn’t matter because I’m not looking for one. Will Hartley is like … well, he’s like Otto. Fascinating to see in his natural habitat, but it’s not like I can take him home with me.
I continue exploring and discover something else.
Not only is the apartment missing a bedroom, there doesn’t seem to be a kitchen, either.
This doesn’t disturb me as much the bedroom, because I don’t cook much.
Translation: Not at all. The burnt offerings I baked in my freshman culinary class—case in point the chocolate chip briquet cookies—was a clue I wasn’t going to excel in that particular arena.
I’m sure I could follow a recipe, but Hazel, Nona’s cook, gives me The Look whenever I dare to enter her domain.
Not to mention all the shiny knives, mallets, and cast-iron skillets that make the kitchen resemble a medieval armory are slightly intimidating.
Will knocks once before he shoulders the door open and sets a plastic laundry basket on the floor. Flicks a glance at me.
“Did you bring towels?”
“Ah … no?”
Will nods as if he expected this would be my answer. “Here’s enough to last a few days.”
Guests have to provide their own towels? At the places we’ve stayed in the past, fluffy robes and bamboo sheets are part of the package.
“Thank you. And blankets?” Yes, it’s a hint, but I’m hoping I missed something. Like a queen-sized bed and whirlpool tub.
“In the basket with the towels.” Will frowns. “And there isn’t a bed. I can bring up a cot, if you prefer that over the couch.”
The word “cot” conjures up an image of a rickety metal frame and plastic-coated mattress.
“I …” Can’t complain. If I do, Will might change his mind about letting me stay. “No. A cot isn’t necessary.”
His gaze lights on the lumpy velvet cushions for a moment before it swings back to me. “Are you sure?”
“I don’t want you to go to any trouble.”
Will’s eyebrow doesn’t lift this time. It twitches. Being new at interpreting the man’s unique style of communication, I’m not sure what it means.
“You probably noticed there isn’t a kitchen, but if you want to make your own meals, I have a microwave you can borrow.”
“Can I skip the microwave and borrow an espresso machine instead?”
“How about a coffee pot?”
“As long as it comes with an IV.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Is he trying not to smile? It really looks like he’s trying not to smile.
In fact, this almost feels like … banter. It also makes me bold.
“Restaurants?” I venture.
I’m surprised when Will nods. “Sure. We post a list on our website. There’s also a grocery store with a pretty decent deli in town.”
“The town that’s a fifteen-minute drive away?”
It’s a valid question, but Will’s expression closes and the moment (at least it felt like a moment) is gone.
“I turned on the water, but it might look a little rusty the first time you use it.” It’s all business, no banter, again. “You can park here, but you’ll have to take the gravel road that runs behind the cabins. Don’t block my tractor, though. Park in the grass.”
“No blocking the tractor,” I repeat.
“I’ll also need you to go online and register as a guest, but you don’t have to pay until you checkout.”
“Can you add the cost of the studio to the Suite Sixteens bill, please? I’ll take care of it all at once.”
Will’s eyes narrow. “Olivia Benson made the reservation, so I already have her credit card on file.”
“And I’m asking you to take mine instead.” This is a non-negotiable. “We only see each other once a year, so it’s my gift to them.”
Will doesn’t say anything, so I guess that means it’s okay.
His gaze sweeps over the room once more and his lips tighten.
I realize I’m looking at Will’s lips a lot more than I should be.
In the interest of keeping things fair, I give equal attention to the rest of his face.
Bronze skin. Sculpted cheekbones. Square jawline enhanced by the shadow of stubble. I’ve seen my stylist, Vicki, painstakingly work with male clients who pay top dollar for the tousled, casual look that Will achieves simply by raking his hand through the swatch of hair that dips over his eyes.
Eyes that are now staring straight at me …
I feel a little zap, the kind you get when you touch a wire that you aren’t supposed to touch, but I can’t look away.
Neither does Will. For a moment, I wonder if he felt the same thing, but then he breaks eye contact and takes a step backward.
“I don’t keep office hours, but if there’s anything else you need, Emily, the number on our website is also my cell.”
Did he really just call me Emily?
“It’s Emberly.”
“Emberly.” Will repeats it, slowly, one syllable at a time, as if it’s going to be difficult to remember.
I wait until he reaches the door.
“Thanks, Phil.”
He freezes in place and glances over his shoulder.
It isn’t the look of surprise on his face that makes my stomach dip again. It’s seeing his lips hitch up at the corners.
It’s there and gone, like a shooting star, but I know what I saw.
The trouble is, Will Hartley’s smiles are like dark chocolate truffles. I already want another one.