Chapter 6
Six
Lacey
“Ow!”
I collapse back onto the inn’s hardwood floor, clutching my throbbing forehead, and glaring up at the responsible party: The Chestnut’s two-hundred-year-old wood reception desk.
Sure, the thing weighs about a thousand pounds and hasn’t moved an inch in living memory, but I’m still going to blame it.
Ordinarily, I don’t make a hobby of hanging out on the floor of the lobby, but as our only two guests haven’t been seen all afternoon… I purse my lips, turning my attention to the snowflakes fluttering down from the darkening sky outside the nearest window.
It’s not my business where Wells or August spent the day. They’re guests. Typically, guests come and go without me worrying about their whereabouts.
Typically, I also don’t know what guests look like naked, either, but here we are.
I’ve been off all day, anxious and fidgety since witnessing Wells and August’s tense reunion over my grandmother’s scones this morning. It’s not every day that you realize that your two wildly hot—albeit very inappropriate—hookups are both bisexual and used to have sex with each other.
Maybe I was asking for drama, sending August after Wells, but the way they were looking at each other… It really felt like there was something there. In that moment, I hated the thought of them at odds.
Even if doing so felt a little like sabotaging my own chance at—at what?
A relationship? August is only in town for a few days, and from what I’ve seen of Wells, he’s pretty stuck in his ways.
Last night, he made it very clear he’s only here because the alternative was freezing to death.
However sweet he was to me this morning, I can’t forget he lives and works right down the road but hasn’t made any effort to see me after this summer.
The best thing that could come out of this weekend is me maintaining some semblance of professionalism and mending some of the resentments that have been stewing between my two guests for far too long.
Rubbing the spot, I’m just on the point of getting my butt up when the bell on the front door sounds. It’s Wells. He freezes when he sees me, his hand on The Chestnut’s doorknob as I shoot him an embarrassed little smile, pushing back to my feet.
His gaze finds my forehead, and then he’s striding forward with a low curse, jaw tight and brow creased in worry. “Jesus, are you okay?” he demands as he comes to a halt right in front of me, narrowing his eyes on the throbbing lump just above my brows.
I let out an unconvincing laugh, gesturing to the desk. “Yes! Of course. I dropped a pen and knocked my head on the corner when I bent to get it. Totally fine.”
Apparently unconvinced, Wells hovers at my side, prepared to intervene in the event of fainting, as I cross to the nearest armchair.
He watches, looking incredibly serious, as I sink down.
“You’re sure? I can give you a ride to the doctor.
..” He trails off, like this is something I should really be considering.
What is it with these guys? They’ve both been sweeter to me in the twenty-four hours they’ve been here than any other guest has in the past decade. It can’t all be because of the sex, can it?
“I’m totally fine,” I assure him with a laugh, and it isn’t a lie. The forehead throbbing has decreased significantly, and I’m not even a little woozy.
Wells doesn’t look so sure about that, but steps back, sinking onto the empty armchair across from mine, the one upholstered in little pink roses.
He looks preposterously big for it, his broad shoulders sandwiched between the wavy sides, all frowny and concerned beneath his tousled mop of gray hair.
Cute. He looks cute.
I don’t say that, of course. While not specifically stated in my college’s hospitality classes, it’s definitely implied you’re not supposed to tell guests—ones over the age of six, anyway—that they’re cute.
“Can I get you anything? Hot chocolate? Coffee?” I offer, eager to steer us back into more professional waters before I do something horrifying like verbalize that particular sentiment.
Unfortunately, Wells isn’t the most cooperative. “You just hit your head; you’re not getting me shit,” he grumbles. “Besides, no offense, but the coffee here is terrible.”
My mouth falls open. “What! No it’s not!
” When people pay upward of five hundred dollars for a room, they expect everything to be the very best quality, and don’t hesitate to tell you if something doesn’t meet standard.
We’ve always used the same brand, and not once, in over ten years, has a guest had a bad thing to say about it.
“Your supplier is over-roasting. It’s easy to avoid, if you have half a brain.”
I let out a disbelieving laugh of protest. “Oh come on, coffee is coffee, isn’t it?”
Wells pinches the bridge of his nose, looking pained. “Christ, Lacey. I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”
“Okay then, mister expert.” I raise my eyebrows, “Who should we be buying from?”
“Me,” he grunts, shooting me a withering look. “I’ll even give it to you for the same price you’re paying the current idiots.”
My mouth pops open. “I didn’t know you roasted your own coffee!
” I’ve seen The Stack’s branded bags of coffee sitting beside the little coffee counter in the shop, but I’d thought that was as far as Wells’ business went.
It’s not a huge store, after all, and most of the space is dedicated to the books.
That comment has him looking away with a noncommittal shrug, a hint of color in his cheeks as he diverts his gaze to the fire crackling in the hearth.
“We rented a warehouse just outside of town and have been moving into more of that. The antique store next door is closing when its lease is up. We’re going to open a wall and have a full-service café. ”
“What! That’s so cool! Congratulations, Wells, or…” I laugh uncomfortably. Now it’s my turn to blush. “Mr. Davis. I’m so sorry, I really shouldn’t be so unprofessional. You’re a guest.”
This has Wells looking back at me, his lips pressed into a flat, annoyed line. “If you call me Mr. Davis again, I’ll check out. How’s that, honey?”
My heart kicks into overdrive.
Honey.
I’ve been called that before, mostly by patronizing old men who come to work or stay at The Chestnut, or my grandparents. When Wells Davis says it, however, it’s different. Different, as in definitely not cute or patronizing, and kind of hot.
Letting out an unsteady breath, I shift in my chair, hyperaware of the tightening of the muscles below my navel and the weight of Wells’ unapologetic stare. We’re sitting ten feet apart, separated by an antique coffee table, and in the middle of my place of employment.
What is wrong with me? I swore I wasn’t going to do this again, but apparently, that resolution doesn’t stop my dumb, horny brain from wondering what he would do if I got to my feet and walked across the lobby to straddle his lap.
Would he like that? Would he put his hands on me?
Would he let me grind down against—oh my god. I have a freaking problem.
I’m on the verge of getting up to return to my desk, because it’s so clearly time to redraw some professional boundaries, when the front door opens yet again. Wells and I both turn, watching as August moves into the room with a gust of icy air.
My nipples were already hard, but this definitely doesn’t help the situation. Nor does the effect it has on me when August looks around, his eyes finding the pair of us. Even from here, I can see his throat working to swallow as he lowers his gaze at last, closing the door behind him.
By the time he turns back to us, I’m on my feet, flushed and unsteady, but with my well-practiced, professional smile in place. “Good afternoon, Doctor Vogel,” I chirp, stepping out from behind the coffee table. “Can I get you a cup of coffee? Cocoa?”
“August is fine,” he corrects me, glancing at the back of Wells’ head. “And I’m okay. I had coffee while I was out.”
Does that mean he did go to The Stack? I hadn’t wanted to ask Wells directly, but dear lord, I’m dying for some information here.
Strangely, I’m kind of rooting for them, even as the possibility of them picking up where they left off, leaving me to my lonely, obviously horny existence, makes me want to shrivel up.
Wells stands, turning to face August. They stare at each other, then, almost simultaneously, look back at me.
What on god’s green earth is happening right now?
With a nervous, fluttery little laugh, I take a step back. “Well, please let me know if either of you needs anything. Just ring the bell or call down. Whatever—”
“You shouldn’t be working right now,” Wells interjects, frowning at me. He looks back to August. “She hit her head on the desk a minute ago. You should take a look at her.”
Oh shit, I totally forgot about that.
I attempt to wave this off. “Oh my gosh, it was nothing, I’m fine.”
August, predictably, ignores this, his expression grave as he draws forward. “You don’t want to mess around with head injuries,” he informs me, and I can barely stifle my gasp as his hands find my waist, lifting me right up onto the desk like I weigh nothing.
Oh my god, why was that so hot?
“It’s not a head injury,” I stammer, watching him pull out his phone and turn on the flashlight. “It was just a bonk.”
We’re so close I can smell his aftershave, and a warm weight drops in my pelvis as he draws nearer, his abdomen brushing my knees.
“A bonk,” August echoes, obviously amused at this as he shines the phone’s light into each of my eyes in turn.
“Just here?” He lowers the device to the desk beside me and lifts his hands to cradle my head, brushing both thumbs over a place in the center of my forehead.
Um. Okay. This is… Okay. Wow.
I’m not sure I’m breathing as another figure appears in my peripheral vision.
Wells has come to stand beside August, frowning as he watches the doctor press carefully against the place where I hit myself. “What kind of doctor are you, anyway?” he asks, still a little gruff, but less frosty than he was earlier.
As close as we are, I see the corners of August’s lips pull up ever so slightly. “An ophthalmologist.” My expression must look as bemused as Wells’, because after a quick glance at the man beside him, August chuckles, shaking his head. “Eyeballs. I fix eyeballs.”
“Ohhhh,” is the unified response from me and Wells, as the doctor finally lets his hands fall back to his sides.
“You’re fine,” he decides, his tone dry. “It was, indeed, just a bonk.”
Wells frowns at him, unconvinced. “You’re sure?”
The doctor glances at him. “As sure as I can be without a CT machine.”
This doesn’t seem to be an acceptable answer for our not-so-friendly neighborhood bookstore/coffee shop owner. “You do eyes, not heads. Should we get her to a doctor who deals with heads?”
“Oh, come on.” I nudge Wells’ knee with my foot, shaking my head in disbelief. “My eyeballs are in my head, so August is definitely qualified for this totally unnecessary medical evaluation. It doesn’t even hurt anymore. You can stop fussing, daddy.”
What I feel following this statement is similar to what one would feel watching your freshly cooked dinner slide off a plate and onto the floor. My stomach basically flops over and off the desk, landing on the floor with a splat, exactly like my handmade pasta primavera did that one time.
I didn’t actually just say that, did I?
Oh my god. No. I did. I did say it. It was a joke, but I’m guessing it didn’t read as a joke, judging by how the newly relaxed atmosphere has tightened somehow.
When I can’t stand even another second of it, I let out a feeble, semi-hysterical laugh. “Sorry! Just joking!” I assure the two men, who are staring at me, like… No. I’m wrong. This is… not that.
That doesn’t even happen in real life, does it?
I always thought threesomes were kind of an urban legend.
A hot, mythical occurrence, only spoken of during drunken, highly exaggerated girls' night stories. I mean, come on. Apart from my two ill-advised one-night stands, I haven’t been able to find a single decent man to have sex with in ages.
Purely from a statistical standpoint, what are my chances of bagging two at once?
It seems to take an age for the three of us to pull ourselves free from whatever weird time warp we were stuck in. When we finally do, and I can breathe again, August seems to shake himself, clearing his throat as he steps back from the desk.
“She’s fine,” he assures Wells again, offering him a cautious smile.
The gesture isn’t returned. Casting a long look between us, Wells’ lips tighten, and he turns toward the stairs with only a curt nod in way of goodbye. As he ascends toward the second floor, I notice how his hands have balled into fists at his sides.
His big, strong, calloused hands, which felt so good when he—oh my god. I need to get it together.
“I’ll let you get back to work,” August tells me once Wells has disappeared from view and we’ve heard the distant sound of a room door opening and closing.
When I turn to meet his eyes, I see he’s shoving his hands in the pockets of his coat.
I’m not sure if it’s my imagination or not, but I swear I see him shift the material over his lap.
Nodding, I avert my gaze and retreat to the back of the desk, where the produce order form is still waiting for completion. Rather like myself.
“Of course, I shouldn’t have kept you. Let me know if you need anything, Doctor Vogel,” I say hurriedly, heat rushing to my cheeks at the thought of precisely how one of those urgent tasks could be finished up.
“August,” he corrects me again, but I keep my eyes on the form, pretending to read the meaningless jumble of words as August’s footsteps retreat toward the upper floor.
Finally, when I hear a second door open and close, I sag against the reception desk, pressing my palms to my burning cheeks.
It takes a few minutes of breathing in and out through my nose to get myself under control.
What started out as a whole lot of potential awkwardness now feels charged for something else entirely
This whole situation… I mean, come on.
Two really hot, older men who apparently used to fuck, and found themselves staying at the same bed and breakfast over Christmas. Alone. With the manager they both slept with, and her newly rediscovered libido.
Thank god my vibrator is charged.