Page 17 of Hot Buttered Rum

Chapter 9

Turner had given me a ride to the beach before heading back out to sea. He’d seemed disappointed to see me go and once I got back to the inn, I wished that I hadn’t insisted on returning so soon.

I hadn’t seen Coco upon my return. I’d gone straight up to shower. A few moments of the terrifying canoe expedition tried to creep back and put a shadow over an otherwise amazing afternoon. I pushed back the memories and concentrated on Turner.

I smoothed the velvety liquid soap over my skin, happy to wash away the smell of the salty sea but not as keen to wash away the lingering scent of the man. My hands pressed against my pussy, and I thought back to Turner’s mouth and hands on me. He seemed to know my body as if he existed purely for my pleasure. But I knew too well that his skills came from a great deal of practice, and that notion tugged at my heart.

A heavy feeling pressed against my chest, and I let the soap drop as the warm water washed over me. Silly Ginger, I told myself. I thought I could allow myself this wild weekend with a complete stranger. Then I’d just drive back to town with only the fond memories. But Turner just wasn’t the type of man you could drive away from without giving him another thought. It had only been twenty minutes since I watched his fishing boat sputter out of the cove, and I already missed seeing him. I actually had no idea if and when he’d be back.

I stepped out of the shower and dried off. It was still a few hours before dusk, but my stomach growled with hunger. I wrapped myself in the robe, and naturally, my mind went right back to Turner and the night before when I’d dropped the same robe for him.

“Stop, Ginger. Since when do you obsess about a man? This isn’t you. Talking to yourself isn’t you either.” I clamped my mouth shut.

Maybe this weekend wasn’t such a good idea after all. That notion was quickly put to rest when I stepped out of the bathroom and was met with a delicious tray of snacks and hot coffee. An adorable emerald green dress was hanging on the back of the door with a note pinned to it. I walked over and unpinned it. “Hope you’re enjoying your stay and since the canoe came in on its own, I’m going to assume you had a wonderful high seas adventure this afternoon.” Just reading the note covered my cheeks in a blush. If I didn’t know any better I’d think that Coco knew I’d been with Turner. But how on earth would she know that? Unless he’d returned.

My heart raced as I quickly pulled on the dress. Coco, the five star hostess, had even left a brand new pair of silk panties and sandals to go with the dress. I glanced in the mirror on my way out. The color and style were perfect for me. The woman was truly magical.

My stomach protested loudly. I walked to the tray of goodies and picked up a cranberry scone. It was sitting on a white linen napkin with the words Silk Stocking Inn embroidered in pink across the top. As hungry as I was, I was too nervous to eat the whole scone. I took a few delicious bites. I picked up the napkin and rubbed my fingers over stitching on the back. I turned it over expecting again to see Silk Stocking Inn. Instead, someone had taken the time to hand stitch a phrase. I blinked in surprise at the words as I rubbed my finger over the pink thread.

“Every story needs a happy ending,” I read aloud.

I was no longer the writer. I was part of the story, and Coco seemed to be the author. And I was standing alone in my room while my hunky hero was downstairs. I used the napkin to wipe the crumbs from the front of my dress.

On my short journey to the door, I reminded myself not to act like a star-struck teenager when I saw Turner. I made myself stop and take a deep breath. “You are a professional, an award winning automotive engineer, Ginger. Don’t forget that.” Then I reverted straight back to a gushing teenager and raced down the stairs like a girl running down to her first date.

I reached the landing and glanced around. I couldn’t find Coco anywhere. My nose directed me down the hallway to the kitchen. Aside from a wonderful aroma seeping out of the oven, there was no sign of the cook.

As I turned to leave, I caught a glimpse of a pink note tucked underneath a rolling pin. My name was written on the note.

I picked it up and recognized Coco’s swirly, fancy script.

The oven timer is on for the pot pies. The apple cobblers are in the refrigerator. Just heat and don’t forget the ice cream. It’s in the freezer. I left a bottle of wine in the dining room. I’ll be back late tonight.

Enjoy,

Coco

I walked to the oven and saw myself, in my perfect fitting dress, in the reflection. All dressed up to eat dinner completely alone in the dining room of an inn, which, at the moment, was as quiet as a morgue.

I headed into the dining room, figuring I’d make fast friends with the bottle of wine. Maybe it would appreciate how amazing I looked in my new dress.

My earlier erratic heartbeat had slowed to a dull thud. I’d rushed down like a silly love smitten girl, hoping to run into Turner, but it seemed that had been wishful thinking. He was, no doubt, out on his boat, or docked in some faraway marina, or, I thought glumly, at home with his beautiful girlfriend. After all, I knew nothing about the man other than that he was incredible to look at. He owned a rather rusty fishing boat named Pickled Pepper. He had a flirtatious parrot. His spectacular teeth were the result of growing up in a family of dentists. And, now that I’d thrown all caution and reason to the wind, I knew that he was nothing short of masterful between the sheets. Other than that, I knew nothing. I didn’t even know if I’d ever see him again. That possibility darkened my mood.

The dining room had been furnished with a beautiful Victorian era table and chairs. The wallpaper and colors were all a perfect representation of an era long gone but still admired. I loved reading and writing about the nineteenth century. The old house, with its creaky bones and whispered secrets of the past, made the whole stay worth it. Even if I’d stupidly allowed myself to fall for a tall dark stranger during my short stay. It was all so out of character for me to make such a rash decision. But then the entire weekend had been so extraordinary and hard to explain, I decided I could forgive myself and blame it on the good food and romantic ambience of the inn. The fact that Turner was a hard man to resist was another worthy excuse. Even the most steadfast and rational woman would have a hard time saying no to him. At least that was my final rationale, and I was sticking with it.

After a long struggle and a string of cuss words, I finally managed to get the cork out of the wine bottle. I pulled out the ornately carved chair and sat down. I filled the glass and leaned back to sip my wine. Not only was I dressed for fun, but I was going to be good and tipsy along with it. It seemed a darn shame that I was going to be completely alone.

I drank my wine and stared out the dining room window. It had a nice view of the cove. The sun was setting. It seemed once again, angry, brooding clouds were rolling into the otherwise peaceful setting. They were still a good distance off shore, but the trees and bushes surrounding the inn had started to sway back and forth with an on shore breeze.

As I gazed outside, a flash of pink caught my eye. I stood and walked to the window. I took another sip of wine as my eyes surveyed the yard. Just like the picture on the website, plump pink roses bloomed like tufts of cotton candy on the vines clinging to the facade and the porch.

“Impossible,” I muttered aloud and then took another big gulp, deciding it was called for. I looked again. I hadn’t been imagining the roses. The day before, when I’d arrived at the inn and stomped up the porch steps ready to give the owner a piece of my mind, the vines had looked as if they’d been dead for years, just the skeletal remains of century old rose vines. How did I miss the big pink blooms?

I drained the glass and returned to the table and the bottle. There was so much to ponder and wonder about that I had to push it out of my head or risk a tension headache. I wasn’t in the mood for a headache.

I glanced down at the green dress. The material shimmered like emeralds beneath the warm lights of the dining room chandelier. “What a waste of a pretty dress and a good wine buzz,” I lamented. My voice echoing through the cavernous room was the only thing to answer me back.

The timer on the oven rang. I got up with some renewed enthusiasm for the evening. All was not lost. At least there was lobster pot pie and apple cobbler. Thank goodness for tasty food and its innate ability to fill in any of the holes left behind by life’s little disappointments.

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