Page 7 of Four on the Floor: A Menage Romance

The tables are dark, heavy wood, surrounded by ornate wood chairs. The walls are half windows, the rest covered in elaborate paintings of what I assume is nineteenth-century life in the Rocky Mountains: old-timey men panning for gold, or chopping wood; women in long skirts sewing and spinning, that sort of thing.

They’re not great paintings, if I’m being super honest. The perspective is a little off, and the painter chose to just paint all the subjects from the side instead of choosing a more interesting and lifelike angle. Also, the brushwork is sloppy in more than a few places, and all the people have dead eyes.

There’s a big, round table toward the center of the room, with two people sitting at it, already eating sandwiches and salad. One is Dalton — clothed now, I’m sad to say — and one is an older man with gray hair who I assume is William, Poppy’s husband.

I wave. Dalton and William wave back, both happily chewing. My heart skips a quick beat, and Dalton pulls out a chair next to himself.

“You must be Larkin,” says a British-accented voice behind me.

I spin, startled because I didn’t know that anyone was behind me, andLordis there ever someone behind me.

Tall. Dark hair, almost black. Brown eyes with long lashes, golden-tan skin, sharp cheekbones and an easy smile. He’s wearing a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing tattooed and muscled forearms that I definitely stare at for a bit too long.

He’s beautiful. Gorgeous. I want to paint him and then I want to unbutton this shirt slowly and let him—

Please say something before you start thinking about what he’d look like naked, Larkin, I remind myself.

“Yes,” I finally say, praying I don’t reveal my surprise at yet another extraordinarily attractive man in this hotel. “I just got in a little while ago.”

“Gavin,” he says, holding out his hand and smiling. “Lovely to have you here. We got in a few days ago and Poppy’s been going on about your work non-stop. I think you’ll have to sell her a few pieces before the retreat’s over.”

His hand is warm and strong, and he takes my hand firmly as he looks me dead in the eye. Prickles move down my spine, and I do my best to ignore them. I also do my best to ignore thoughts of him without his shirt on as I wonder what the rest of the tattoos look like.

“I’m sure she’s just being nice,” I say, his hand lingering on mine.

“Doubt it,” he says, his eyes creasing at the corners with a smile. “Poppy’s a real hardarse, you know. At least she makes a killer roast beef sandwich.”

I head to the chair that Dalton already pulled out for me and settle in. Gavin sits opposite me, and Cash and Dalton sit to one side, Poppy and William to the other. The sandwich fixings are on the table in front of us, along with a big tureen of tomato soup.

“That’s from scratch,” Dalton says, leaning over to murmur in my ear. “Poppy made it. It’s amazing.”

“There’s a few gallons in the deep freeze,” Poppy says breezily, reaching over me to ladle some into her own bowl. “Can’t have you all starving on my watch.”

“Youdidhave us sign an agreement saying that if we starved, it wasn’t your fault,” Cash teases her.

“It didn’t specify starving,” Poppy goes on, unperturbed. “Any way you die while you’re on your own up here we can’t be held liable for. Do you want some soup, dear?”

She doesn’t wait for William to respond before giving him some soup, so he just nods and thanks her. I get the feeling that William doesn’t get too many words in edgewise.

“Is Slate feeling all right?” she asks, arranging meat on her bread, grabbing some mustard. “I was expecting to see him here. He hasn’t met Larkin yet, and I think they’d get along so well.”

“That grumpy bastard?” Gavin asks, grinning, his sandwich held up to his mouth.

“Oh, stop,” Poppy says.

“He’s probably upstairs in his room, conferring with the muse or whatever he does when he’s writing songs,” Cash joins in. “It’s all right, more food for us.”

“He’s a musician?” I ask as I fix myself a sandwich.

The three guys at the table all nod in unison.

“We all are,” says Dalton.

“We’re a band,” joins in Cash.

“Taking the winter to lock ourselves up and work on our new album,” he says. “The outside world can be a bit distracting, easy to go mad out there and never get a single thing done.”

I just nod in agreement, taking a huge bite of my sandwich. Turns out I’mfamished.

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