Chapter 3
Chapter Three
IRIS
A s Iris hefted her heavy bag up the staircase of Orchard House, she threw mental daggers at the unfortunately biteable backside of Sam. He walked ahead of her, toting his photography equipment and bag with ease.
She paused on the landing to gather her breath and hefted her bag onto her shoulder again.
“You know, you didn’t have to wave off the bellhop when he offered a third time.” She blew hair out of her face as she panted. I gotta do more cardio.
Great. She’d be sweaty and stuck in a small room, in one bed with Sam. Just perfect.
“You hated it when I opened doors for you in college,” Sam said, already at the top of the next floor.
“Because you’d rush ahead and hold it open while I was a half a block away, so I’d have to walk faster.”
Baritone laughter rolled out of him.“And you’d fall for it every time.”
Two weeks. Two weeks of this. He’d irritate her to the point where she wouldn’t smother him with a pillow, but she’d think about it all fucking night.
“You are the worst.” She finally got to the top of the stairs but took the corner too quickly and swung backward, being off-centered with her enormous bag.With horror, she realized she might careen backward down the steep staircase.
With a steady hand, Sam snaked his arm around her waist and yanked her back up to standing. He turned away from her once she was settled back in place and unlocked the room.
Whoa . “Th—” She cleared her throat. “Thank you,” she whispered .
He shrugged without looking at her and opened their room door to reveal a gorgeous suite. It was complete with a working fireplace, a wicker basket of logs tucked in next to it, a cozy seating area with a basket of muffins and scones, and a white chenille blanket all set in a sage green room.
In the middle loomed a queen-sized bed covered in a snowy white duvet and four tall dark oak spindles on each corner.
She brushed past him to set down her things, and he grabbed her arm.
“Hold on. Before you explode all of your Iris-ness, I need to take photos.”
“There is no Iris-ness to explode,” she countered. “I wasn’t the one who made a stack of ramen cups high enough to build a fort in the Daily editorial bullpen.”
He moved around the room, crouching and ignoring her, which was fine. She didn’t need one of his retorts, pointing out a character flaw she’d rather not think about.
Goddamn , she’d forgotten how hot he was when he was in photographer mode. Tight t-shirt around his arms, confident, no-nonsense. He focused with a sincerity and seriousness that she never saw from him outside of work.
His jaw clenched as he swept his hair out of his eyes.“Go stand in the window,” he said, pulling back the curtains.
“I am not going to be in these photos.”
“Unless you have a very small model hidden somewhere in your enormous bag, go stand over there.”
“I can’t do that,” she said, fussing with her chambray shirt and corduroy pants. She’d dressed for girl’s trip comfort, not to be featured in a magazine.
“Oh, no one’s going to look at you.”
“That’s not any better.” She cocked her head, annoyed at him.
“You know what I mean. You’re part of the decor. You’ll hide behind this gauzy curtain. It looks dead in the shot if it’s only furniture.” He shooed her to the window and she scowled but obliged. “Now, pretend your long-lost love is returning with Little Nicky’s Donuts.”
She couldn’t help herself and cracked a smile. One thing is for certain in this world: I do love a carb, especially from the bakery in our hometown. Their room overlooked a main square full of hay bales, a corner store, and families traipsing back from an elementary school harvest festival.
“Done with the wide shot of the room. I’m going to make a fire for close-ups of the fireplace,” he said, moving to the center of the room. The large brick fireplace went up into the ceiling in one large column. It looked original, and the opening was large enough for a toddler to stand in with room to spare.
“Good. I’m freezing.” She shuddered as she searched for a sweater to put on.She’d cooled from the hike up the steep stairs, and the dried sweat was now making her chilly. She couldn’t wait to luxuriate in the smell of burning wood while she warmed her toes.
The crackle and pop of the firewood sounded in the quiet room. She liked poking at Sam more than the quiet between them. It was filled with this other chemistry-filled tension, like they were two tigers circling each other.
It had been a long two years of being alone since Bart had broken the engagement, and she’d forgotten what it felt like to have this kind of chemistry with someone.
“Sit,” he said, pointing to the seat in front of the fireplace.
She raised an eyebrow.
“Jesus. Fine, please …Princess of the Type As, High Priestess of the Holier Than Thous, willst thou sit upon this old chair?”
Iris slowly settled into one of the chairs in front of the fireplace. Its wide oak seat was bound with a burgundy leather covering, and it felt worn and comfortable.
Sam turned off the lamps and shut the drapes to give more of a moody lighting effect.
“Here, hold a glass. I want a more natural shot of the fireplace.”
She eyed him skeptically. “I don’t even have any makeup on.”
“You look great,” he said offhandedly.
She decided to ignore the thrill that gave her. Just concentrate on not looking dumb in the photos.
The fire now roared, licking up into the chimney of the fireplace. She felt the warmth seep into her bones and wished she had a bourbon in the glass she was holding.
She tried to not be self-conscious at the sounds of Sam and camera clicks moving behind her.“Turn your head to the left,” he said.
She marveled at how his professional voice was so different from the one he used with her. It was calm, in command, polite.
Kinda hot.
“What, no ‘Buns’ at the end of it?” she said, turning her head.
“I” —click— “am a consummate” —shutter, click, beep— “professional,” he said, standing up. “Okay, we’re good. I’m gonna get ice and water to throw on the fire.”
“Don’t you dare,” she said, turning around quickly to stop him. As she stood up, her nose smacked into his bare chest.
“Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” she yelled, staring at the sheen of sweat on his —apparently—defined chest and shoulders. The scent of the cologne he’d always worn wrapped around her and tugged somewhere deep inside.
“Because it’s a hundred fucking degrees in here,” he said, setting his camera down and walking past her.
He flung open the windows. A cool breeze curled through the windows instantly, blowing the gauzy lace curtains.
Holy moly . She had not been expecting that to be hiding under his designer t-shirt. His chest was so…was so… something . Jiminy Christmas.
“While you finish clutching your pearls, I’m going outside to cool down. Maybe get some exterior shots once the sun sets.”
“Pfft,” she called back. “As if I’d clutch any precious stone at the sight of that ,” she lied, waving her hand at the vague vicinity of his abs and chest.
A smug smile curled onto his face.“You can stop staring at it anytime you want.” He threw his t-shirt back on, pulling it over his head and flexing his abs while he yanked it down.
“You’re the worst,” she yelled, sitting back into the chair and facing the fire as he left.
She hated that he still smelled so good. And that he looked like a grown-ass man with hard, firm muscles. He’d started to bulk up in college, but…
Lickable! She snapped her fingers. That’s what his chest was. Get your head out of the gutter and into this inn.
She pulled out her notebook to capture her thoughts, keeping things as factual and fair as possible.
Twenty minutes later, her phone buzzed. She was surprised at the pang of disappointment that it was Sophia instead of Sam. She loved her sister, truly, but she’d forgotten the invigorating feeling of volleying insults back and forth. It burned her muscles and woke her up, like a good swim.
Phia the Famous
How’s your trip? Get any hot mountain man tail yet?
Her message was followed by a series of emojis including the peach, ax, maple leaf, shirt and bearded man emoji. Iris snorted.
Sophia was three years older and about a million years ahead in her career. Her successful cooking blog had turned into a successful cookbook and recipe media empire with two million followers. She was more of a successful writer than Iris would ever be.
Iris
Not exactly…
Phia the Famous
ooh, tell me more
Iris
How much do you remember about Sam Larsson?
Sophia’s face filled her screen as a phone call came through and Iris swiped up, bracing herself.
“You’re fucking kidding me,” Sophia yelled through the phone.
“What did I do to the universe to deserve this, Phia?” Iris paced in her room.“I donate to the needy. I pay my taxes. I even compost! With worms . Karma’s got the wrong number.” Her sister had sat through every outraged venting session about Sam for eight long years.
“No, this is your perfect opportunity. Bart’s out of the way.”
“Oh, come on,” Iris said with disbelief.
“Seeing the two of you in your debate team matches, the way you talked about him at home. There was obviously some chemistry there. You said he was a nice guy, right?”
“I mean, define nice. Is he gonna murder me in my sleep? No. But would he ever respond, ‘Well, actually ’ after me in a meeting? Definitely.”
“Iris,” Sophia said in a chastising tone.“You liked him.”
“What? No. That’s gross. I was dating Bart. Sam was literally the bane of my existence.”
“The bane of your flirtatious existence. And near the end of college, he wasn’t so bad-looking, right?”
“Well he’s not bad-looking now ,” Iris said without thinking, imagining his chest in front of her again.
“Ha ha !” Sophia shouted with vindication. “So? You’re finally gonna have some fun after living a cloistered nun-like existence for two years?”
“Absolutely not. We’re colleagues.”
Sophia hummed and Iris pictured the waggle of her head that usually accompanied it. “But not like actual colleagues, like freelance colleagues. Free agents.”
“Sophia, this is work. I take it seriously. Not all of us can be perfect and famous at twenty-two like you.”
“That was a long ten years ago,” Sophia said, grumbling. Iris could practically see her swishing the red wine in her glass now. “All I’m saying is don’t count yourself out.”
* * *
That night, Iris and Sam stood on either side of the bed like giant, middle school chickens.
“It’s no big deal,” Iris said defensively to no one in particular as she stared at the smallest queen bed in existence. “I mean, we’re adults. I know you.”
“Right,” he said, shrugging, scratching the back of his head and staring at the bed. “This isn’t weird. I mean, you could argue we’re… f-friends.” He stumbled over the word, swallowing it like a boulder he couldn’t get his throat around.
“Friendly rivals feels more appropriate.” She pulled back the covers on the left side.
“You can never just agree, can you? Mind if I take the left side?” Sam asked.
She sat down and squeezed the pillow so her cheek landed on it with glee.“I literally just claimed it.”
His eyebrows furrowed at her, a face she recognized immediately. “Are you marking your territory like a cat?”
Maybe . “I usually sleep on this side.”
“Me too.” He tossed his phone and wallet onto the other nightstand with the frown he reserved purely for her.
She lay down, feeling victorious. “Then it’s going to be a hard two weeks for you.”
“Tell me about it,” he yelled as he disappeared into the bathroom.
She mentally prepped herself for the next ten minutes. Just fall asleep, Iris. Don’t think about who you’re sleeping next to. It’s like sitting next to a stranger on a plane. You’re not going to think about who’s next to you, and you’re not going to think about that one sexy dream you’ve had a few times about him.
You are not—absolutely not— going to imagine his hand drifting over to you in the night, sliding between your thighs. Pulling you close, kissing your neck. Just fall asleep by naming the presidents in alphabetical order like you always do.
“Light on?” Sam said as he stood around the corner with the dim light of the bathroom behind him.
He’d taken off his shirt again and had on low-slung gray sweatpants. The deep V of his abs was absolutely ludicrous.She slammed her eyes closed because she was physically unable to rip them away from how his sweatpants sat on his hips.
Jesus Christ, was she gonna get a break this trip?
He sat on the bed and she got a whiff of his aftershave. Why oh why oh why did he have to smell so good? “Are you sure you can’t put a shirt on to sleep?” she said, facing him.
“I’ll feel like I’m being strangled. Plus, it’s 100 degrees in here.” He turned over with an irritated huff to turn off the bedside light. “It feels all wrong on this side,” he said, tossing and turning.
Something did feel off. What was it?
Oh. She had pants on. She whipped around under the covers trying to get comfortable.“I hate sleeping in pajama pants. I feel like a mermaid wrapped in seaweed.”
A long-suffering sigh came from the other side of the bed as she tossed and turned for a solid thirty seconds.
He huffed, waiting for her to stop flip-flopping like a dying fish. “Just take them off,” he finally yelled as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
She stopped mid-flop. “But then I wouldn’t have any pants on, and we’re…”
“What?” He lifted his head. His eyes met hers in the dark.
“...I don’t know, next to each other. Isn’t that weird?” And a little sexy?
He shrugged. “I don’t have a shirt on.”
“But you’re a boy.”
“Fuck gender norms. Plus, you’re welcome to take your shirt off any time,” he said with a sly grin.
She grabbed her pillow and hit him with it as he burst out laughing.
He leaned on the pillow, shifting to get comfortable. “I’ll be asleep. Do whatever you want.”
He looked bemused at her frustration, per usual, and her heart pounded faster as he stared at her in expectation.
She hated that she trusted him implicitly. “Fine. But, you know, keep everything over there.”
“Aye aye, Buns,” he said, saluting her.
She snaked out of her pajama pants and felt the welcome relief of free movement.
As they both found a comfortable spot in the lumpy mattress— I’ll be noting this in my review —a loud thumping started on the other side of their headboard.
A rhythmic thumping that could only be one thing at ten o’clock at night.
“Oh my god,” Iris said in mortification, putting one of the extra pillows over her face.
The rhythmic thumping stopped. She caught Sam’s eye in the dark with a lifted eyebrow as they waited. Then a loud groan of “ Babe ” and the loud thumping started again.
Iris and Sam burst out laughing.
Thump—thump—“Baaabe.” Thump—thump—“Baaaabe,” sounded on the other side of the wall. Tears sprang to Iris’s eyes as Sam buried his face in his pillow, wheezing with laughter.
Thump—thump—“Baaaabe.”
Her face heated, and she felt a tiny tug of desire.
Nope. No. You cannot get turned on by comical lovemaking. “This is so stupid,” she muttered. She re-situated herself and threw back the covers down to her waist.
“Is this doing it for you?” Sam snorted as he leaned up on his elbow, obviously not getting any sleep. Their bedside tables shook from the thrusting against the wall.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Iris said primly. She took off her long sleeve shirt she’d thrown over her t-shirt.
“You are . You’re getting hot and bothered,” Sam said with a sly smile.
The cries grew louder, more urgent. The “ babes ” grew faster.
Yes . “No,” she said as if he was being juvenile rather than exactly correct. “It’s warm in here. You said so yourself.” She settled onto her side, facing him.
The snort-inducing babes had stopped, and the babe in question started making low, guttural, sensual moans.
It was slow, needy, obscene .
It was, in a word, erotic-as-fuck.
Iris’s stupid eyes found Sam’s in the dark. He’d already been staring at her. He didn’t look away, and Iris felt a challenge from him. That fucking chemistry she loved to hate and hated to love.
She could never tell if that pull of more was just on her side though. She’d seen Sam’s girlfriends. She wasn’t his type.
But he stared at her as moans circled in the air between them, creating a perfume of lust.
He licked his lips, and desire curled through her body at the swipe of his tongue. How it would feel against her breasts, her clit. On her neck, tasting it against her tongue.
Their breaths became heavy, needy, as the moans and thumps and dirty words surrounded them.
Sam’s eyes moved across her face. Her pussy had started throbbing— we will have words later, girl —and she squirmed to keep her lust at bay. She never let her eyes drift from his though. She could swear she saw his breath quicken as his eyes dipped down to her lips.
A strangled, long “ Baaaabe ” called out, and the thumping stopped.
Sam cleared his throat as he punched to reform his pillow and turned around, the moment having been broken.“Finally.”
Iris rolled her eyes at herself— so embarrassing —and pulled her eye mask down.
He let out a long sigh beside her. “Night, Bun-Buns.”
It was going to be a long two weeks.