Page 30 of Knotting With A Stranger

“Before we head upstairs, let me show you around on this floor,” Archer mentions, his hand ghosting near the small of my back as he guides me down a hallway of rich mahogany panels. Even that almost-touch sends shivers racing along my spine.

The first door he opens makes me gasp. “This is a bathroom? It looks like a spa retreat.” My words echo slightly in the vast space. Cream marble stretches from floor to ceiling, centered around a sunken jacuzzi tub that could easily fit four people. The whole room glows with soft ambient lighting. “Is that... a waterfall shower?”

“And a sauna through there,” he adds, pointing to a door, clearly enjoying my reaction. He watches me take it all in, grinning. “Nothing better after a day in the snow. The heat seeps right into your bones.”

I’m about to respond when he leads me to the next room, and all words die in my throat. The kitchen is... magnificent. Copper pots hang from a rack overhead, gleaming in the natural light that pours through floor-to-ceiling windows. A massive island of blue-veined marble dominates the center, surrounded by professional-grade stainless steel appliances. The walk-in pantry could fit my entire apartment’s kitchen inside it.

“I think I’m in love,” I breathe, running my fingers along the cool marble. “Two ovens... an eight-burner gas range... is that a proper proofing drawer?” I spin to face him, not even trying to hide my excitement. “This is like every baker’s dream kitchen come to life. Why does Hunter have such a fancy kitchen?”

“According to Hunter, when their grandfather renovated the place a couple years back, some hotshot interior designer talked him into it,” Archer details. His lips quirk into a half-smile. “Though I doubt all this fancy equipment gets used half as much as it deserves. Especially not since Hunter’s idea of cooking is takeout.”

Archer leans against the doorframe, that devastating half-smile playing across his lips. “It’s yours to use whenever you want. Something tells me you’d put it to better use than we do.”

“Careful with those kinds of offers,” I warn, even as my mind races with possibilities. “I might never leave. You’ll come down one morning to find the whole place smelling like cinnamon and vanilla.”

“Sounds terrible,” he deadpans, but his attention on me never leaves. “However will I cope with fresh-baked goods appearing in my kitchen?”

I laugh, the sound surprisingly free and easy, despite my body’s constant awareness of him. “Oh, so that’s your evil plan. Lure the baker in with a dream kitchen.”

“Is it working?” His voice drops lower, and my pulse leaps through my veins.

I meet his gaze, allowing myself a small smirk. “Maybe. But I still need to see upstairs before I make any decisions about moving in,” I joke, though I also want to see what I’m dealing with in the house, seeing I’m stuck here until the storm passes.

His smile calls me to follow him up the stairs.

They creak under our feet as we ascend. The walls are lined with more black-and-white photographs—mostly mountain landscapes, though I catch glimpses of what must be Hunter’s rescue missions.

“Hunter has... expensive taste,” I manage, trying to focus on anything but how Archer consumes my attention.

“He inherited the place as is,” Archer says with a slight smile. “Most of us grew up visiting here for as long as I can remember. Since losing his grandfather, he spends more time here than back in town now—it just feels like home.”

We reach the landing, and Archer pauses. Lightning flashes through the windows, illuminating his features in sharp relief. “He lets us stay here whenever we want or when we need to get away.”

The hallway stretches before us, all dark wood and plush carpeting that muffles our steps. More art, more photographs.

Archer leads me past doors that probably hide rooms bigger than my bedroom. We pass a library that makes me stop dead in my tracks. Floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed with leather-bound volumes, reading nooks tucked into window alcoves. But something else catches my eye—a silk bra draped carelessly over a leather armchair, its deep red a stark contrast to the room’s masculine energy.

Archer follows my gaze. “Hunter entertains sometimes.”

“I can see that.” I glance around the ornate foyer, trying to act nonchalant, but I feel my cheeks flushing. “Though I admit, in a house this grand, I half expect to hear the beating of a hideous heart beneath these floorboards.”

Archer stops so abruptly, I nearly bump into him. When he turns, his gaze is alight with something I haven’t seen before—a raw enthusiasm that transforms his whole face into something full of excitement.

“Did you just quote Edgar Allan Poe?”

I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “Maybe.”

“More than maybe,” he says, his lips stretching into a wide grin. “I haven’t met many people who can casually dropTell-Tale Heartinto conversation.”

“My grandmother’s fault, actually.” I pause on the step below him, oddly pleased at the way he’s looking at me—as if I’m abook he can’t wait to open. “She used to read gothic poetry to me when I was young. She loved them, and I guess it rubbed off on me.”

“And Poe was your favorite?” There’s something almost hungry in the way he leans against the banister, waiting for my answer.

“He understood darkness,” I say. “Not just fear, but that strange place where terror meets beauty. I must have readThe Tell-Tale Hearta hundred times.”

“The guilty man who can’t escape his own conscience,” Archer murmurs, and something flares in those eyes. “Or perhaps the sane man trying to convince himself he isn’t mad.”

“Both, maybe.” I return his stare. “That’s what makes it brilliant, isn’t it? I heard you talking with Hunter about first editions,” I add, curiosity finally getting the better of me. “You collect them?”

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