From room to room we go, and I fall more deeply in love with the house with each step. There’s a blend of antiques tucked in among new furniture and modern artwork.

  It’s obvious he’s taken great care with his home. This is about the furthest thing from a bachelor pad I’ve ever seen, and I tell him so once we’ve finished our loop and made it back down to the kitchen on the first floor.

  It’s the most updated room in the whole house. There are sleek appliances, marble countertops, and an abstract painting of concentric circles I recognize but can’t place.

  Professor Barclay takes two bottles of La Croix from a beverage refrigerator tucked beneath his kitchen island and slides one over to me as I climb up onto a kitchen counter stool.

  “Some of the pieces I inherited from my great-grandparents and grandparents, though I do like hunting for things when I find the time in Europe.”

  “Of course. Who wouldn’t? Y’know, I grew up in a historic home,” I say, fiddling with my water. “Nothing like this though.”

  “Tell me about it. Your childhood.”

  He leans onto his elbows, and I resist the urge to fidget.

  “Oh…well, I grew up in Scotland. Did you know that?”

  He seems to be fighting back a smile when he replies, “No, Emelia. I know hardly anything about you—at least nothing about your past.”

  I nod. “Well, in my mother’s divorce from Frédéric, she was given a property in Scotland called Dunlany Castle. It’s a Victorian castle that dates back to 1228.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  I smile and shake my head. “It’s true. Temper your expectations, though. The place was a hovel when she purchased it and it’s a hovel now. Once they got divorced, money was tight. Her plans to restore it were no longer feasible.”

  “But you still lived there?”

  “Yes. We closed off most of the house and lived primarily in the west wing. It didn’t have central air or heat, but there was electricity, and indoor plumbing had been added before my mother moved in. There were enough modern conveniences to make it doable. No dishwasher though, and we had to do laundry in a wash basin outside.”

  He seems amused by this, so I continue.

  “My mother stayed there after I left for boarding school in England. I’d travel back on the weekends and stay there whenever we had long breaks.”

  “And now who takes care of it?”

  I look down at my drink.

  “No one.” It’s impossible not to feel a wave of sadness about that fact. “There was a groundskeeper, Mr. Parmer. He checks up on the property every now and then for me, though no one has done any improvements in almost ten years.”

  “Have you thought of selling it?”

  My eyes widen in alarm. “No. Never. It’s my home…the birthplace of every childhood memory I hold dear. Besides, I have plans for it.” I regain the courage to look at him. “I want to eventually finish the restoration work my mother began.”

  “So Dunlany is where your interest in architectural conservation was born,” he gathers.

  I nod. “What about you? Did you grow up in a historic home?”

  He smiles. “Not even close. My parents live on a newly built estate on a vineyard in California. My parents own a winery…among other things.”

  Hearing that, more of the puzzle pieces fall into place—his privileged upbringing, his connection to the Mercier family, his ability to attend a school like Saint John’s.

  “Polar opposites then,” I say, trying to make light of the fact that we come from two extremely different worlds. “I don’t think you were scrubbing your panties in a wash basin.”

  He laughs and shakes his head. “No.”

  I can’t believe I’m sitting here holding a light conversation with Professor Barclay when only a short while ago he was whispering dark words into my ear. It’s hard to reconcile both sides of him: the man in this beautifully decorated home, every vase perfectly centered, every painting thoughtfully hung, and the man who’s more villain than hero, the one who pulls me in a direction I’m scared to explore.

  “I want to know more,” he says, leaning back against the counter opposite me, crossing his arms.

  I wet my lips. “About what? Dunlany?”

  “That, yes. Your boarding school. Whatever you want to tell me.”

  “Well my boarding school was nice, but it was no Saint John’s, let’s say that.”

  “Your mother was American?”

  “Yes.”

  “So where is her family?”

  Isn’t that a million-dollar question. “I think I have an aunt in Idaho or something, but I’m not sure. My mother wasn’t very forthcoming with details, but I do know she was anxious to leave her family in the States for one reason or another. It’s part of why she moved to France to attend school. I don’t recall her ever speaking to her family on the phone or anything, and I definitely never met anyone.”

  “I’m sure it’s been hard.”

  My throat squeezes tight, and I simply nod. What more is there to say about the subject? I’m an orphan, no family to speak of whatsoever. I’m alone and have been for so long now that I’ve grown used to the empty feeling.

  “Other people have it worse,” I say, pushing away my untouched water.

  “But we’re talking about you…”

  Emotions are a finicky thing. Sadness morphs so easily into anger, happening in the blink of an eye. I bristle at his tone, and just like that, the perimeter I keep around my heart is more impenetrable than ever.

  I slide off my stool. “I’m getting tired. Should we go to bed?”

  There’s a prolonged moment where he looks at me as if he might challenge my withdrawal from the conversation, maybe try to push me to open up, but he simply nods and leads me up to the second floor.

  In his closet, he starts rifling through drawers.

  “I don’t have any women’s clothes for you to wear.”

  “Nothing of Miranda’s?”

  He presses a soft gray t-shirt into my arms and ignores my bout of jealousy. “This will have to do. Would you like sweatpants too?”

  I hold up his t-shirt to see where the hem hits my thighs. It’ll be short, but it’ll cover everything.

  The front says Dartmouth faculty. I almost give in to the urge to smile.

  “This is fine.”

  His lips flatten in a line as if he isn’t pleased with the fact that I won’t be wearing pants, but he holds his tongue.

  “There’s a guest room down the hall with toiletries stocked under the sink. Use anything you’d like. You’ll find fresh towels in the bathroom cabinets.”

  I look through the closet door, back toward his room.

  “I won’t be staying in here with you?”

  His king bed is right there. An invitation if there ever was one.

  “I don’t think it’d be wise.”

  I nearly ask him why. Is it because I wouldn’t answer his questions in the kitchen, because I pulled back during his attempt to go deeper?

  I’m curious, of course, but I don’t press. This feels like a tiny rejection, and I’d rather save face than reveal the fact that I’m hurt by him sticking me in some guest bedroom like he’d rather just get rid of me altogether.

  “Right. Good night then.”

  I don’t look back at him as I leave his room. What is there to do? Kiss him on the cheek? Give him a hug? Dear god, I can’t imagine what he would do if I tried to hug him. Tense up? Pat my head?

  I’d rather not find out.

  True to his word, the guest room accommodations are fit for royalty. I treat myself to a long shower, sampling some of everything that’s in the bathroom: luxurious face soap, body wash, and moisturizer, to name a few. I contemplate dropping my favorites of the bunch into my purse to take with me in the morning. The moisturizer is especially tempting because of how decadent it feels on my skin.

  I dry my hair then walk into the bedroom where I find my panties freshly laundered, waiting for me on the bed atop a pair of folded sweatpants. He must have come in to get them and washed them on a quick cycle while I showered, which feels oddly intimate. A cavalier lover doesn’t usually do laundry, at least not that I know of, though I haven’t had many lovers in my day. None outside of Professor Barclay, and I’d blush calling him that to his face.

  As I get dressed—skipping the sweatpants—I hear his voice carry from down the hall. He must be on the phone, and though I should afford him privacy, my curiosity gets the best of me.

  I don’t leave my room—that way I can convince myself I’m doing nothing wrong—but I hover at the door with my ear tilted toward his voice.

  “They’ve been trouble from the start. The whole office seems hell-bent on extending this project out another three years.”

  I frown at how worked up he sounds.

  “No. I’d rather just handle it myself,” he continues. “I’ll fly out first thing in the morning. It should only take a day or two. I’ll see if Candace can reach Blake to get a meeting on the books. The earlier the better so this doesn’t continue to delay things.”

  My heart deflates like a shrinking balloon as I step away from the door.

  So he’s leaving in the morning. It’s not a big deal, I try to assure myself.

  Then why do I feel inexplicably sad?

  It’s this room, I figure. It’s plush and well-stocked, decadent and luxurious, but it’s also cold and empty. I fill so little of it as I pad over to the bed and draw back the covers.

  I have no book or Kindle, nothing to entertain myself with as I lie there and stare up at the dark ceiling. I concentrate on the city noise filtering in from outside, though given our location, it’s surprisingly minimal. Leave it to Professor Barclay to ensure noise and nuisances are kept to a minimum.

  Sleep doesn’t come. I toss and turn for so long that I start to grow annoyed by it. I consider sneaking down to the kitchen to get myself a snack or perusing the bookshelves I saw in the living room to try to find a novel that catches my eye, but I feel like both would be wrong. I’m staying in Professor Barclay’s guest room, but I don’t feel like a guest; I feel like an intruder.

  I should have just left earlier rather than accept his invitation to stay the night. When he put me in this room, that should have been my cue to leave.

  I check the time to find it’s 3:19 AM. Too late for me to go home now.

  I settle in for a long night of restlessness and start to wonder if Professor Barclay has made it to bed or if work has kept him up late. I wonder if he’s sleeping soundly, having forgotten I’m even here.

  A part of me—a silly child—wanted him to come tell me good night before he went to sleep, to need to come see me one more time because he couldn’t resist. There was no knock though, no sound on the other side of my door.

  I sit up and kick off my covers, angry at the night for dragging this out for so long. Just get on with it. Either raise the sun or let me sleep.

  I can’t stay in this room another second.

  I go to the door and twist the knob with no clear destination in my mind. I could go down for that snack or hunt for that book, but my feet carry me toward the opposite end of the hall, where Professor Barclay’s bedroom door is cracked.

  I take it as an invitation whether it is one or not.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Emelia

  * * *

  I press my palm flat against the door and push it open wide, sneaking into his room with quiet steps, glad for the shaft of moonlight trickling through the closed drapes. There’s just enough light to guide me toward his side of the bed where he lies shirtless and sleeping on his stomach, his hands tucked up underneath his pillow. He’s turned away from me so his face is nothing but shadow. My gaze follows the cords of stacked muscles down his back to his slightly tapered waist. The blanket is bunched around the top of his boxer briefs.

  He’s beautiful, half naked and posed in a way that reminds me of a high Renaissance sculpture, contours and valleys and slopes beckoning me.

  I take a hesitant step forward and reach my hand out to slide it along his back, barely grazing his skin with the tips of my fingers. My intent is murky. I’d rather not disturb him, but I can’t help myself. I’ve never seen him shirtless. I’ve definitely never had freedom in this way.

  He doesn’t stir as I guide my hand up to his shoulder blades and the tense muscles there. There’s a sharp juxtaposition between smooth skin atop hard muscle. I would continue my trail a dozen more times, but as my fingers delve gently into his hair, he suddenly turns over and grasps my wrist, capturing me. Even if I was thinking I’d flee, I have no chance of it now.

  I yelp in surprise, but he doesn’t release me.

  His eyes carry no hint of sleep. His blue stare is intense, not sluggish, which makes me think he was either not asleep at all or he woke up as soon as I entered his room.

  He doesn’t ask me what I’m doing beside his bed. He uses his grip on my wrist to tug me down.

  He scoots and makes room for me, putting me into the center of the bed and cocooning me with his warm body. His hands welcome me to his room as his mouth covers mine and asks me to stay.

  I’m not shy, not in the moonlight.

  I kiss him back with fervor, parting my lips and my thighs, accommodating him as he presses up and onto me, pinning me down into the soft mattress with his hard body. I yield like Play-Doh in a toddler’s hand, a pliant toy.

  My lips already feel bruised. His kisses are almost punishing, like he’s taking his anger out on me. He’s impatient and hungry. In my fantastical thoughts, I imagine he was lying in here missing me, wishing he hadn’t sent me to the room down the hall. I imagine he’s kissing me passionately because he wants to make up for the lost hours, to regain the intimacy we almost lost. His true motives, I’ll never know.

  His mouth moves down my neck. His teeth sink into my nape and I moan, deep and bloodthirsty. My nails dig into his skin.

  “Professor—”

  He peels back to stare at me, panting. “Jonathan, Emelia. Call me Jonathan.”

  I say, “No,” but the real answer is, I can’t.

  He likes my resistance. His hands take the hem of my borrowed t-shirt and start to gather it up, revealing first my panties and then my naked navel, my stomach, my rib cage, my breasts.

  He stares at me in the low light, bewitched for a moment before he leans down and takes one breast into his mouth and then the other, tasting them with eagerness. He closes his lips around the tip and sucks for a fleeting second before doing it again, biting down until I hiss and my back arches off the bed. Then he’s kissing them gently, marking my skin, turning it red.

  His phone alarm blares on his bedside table and makes me jump out of my skin.

  “Fuck,” he curses under his breath before leaning over to silence it.

  My ears are still ringing even when the room goes quiet.

  “Do you always set your alarm for the middle of the night?”

  “I have a six AM flight to catch.”

  He sounds deeply annoyed by that fact, but it doesn’t change anything. He has to go, and my nakedness suddenly feels foolish. I wish I could pull up the covers and hide underneath them. I settle for tugging down my t-shirt.

  “It’s the Cincinnati project—I have to tend to a few emergent things, but I shouldn’t be gone longer than two or three days. Hopefully I’m back in Boston no later than Tuesday.”

  I’m already pulling away, unable to maintain eye contact as I slide out from underneath him and tuck my knees against my chest.

  “Okay.”

  “I was planning to wake you before I left.”

  I nod to let him know that would have been fine. After all, this hasn’t come as a surprise. I knew he was leaving. I’m not sure why it’s still bothering me.

  “It’s for the best. A little time to cool off.”

  He reaches out to take my chin in his hand. “That’s not what I want.”

  I shiver at his bold declaration but don’t say a word.

  I start to stand up, but he shakes his head. “Stay. Sleep. I need to shower and finish packing.”

  I stay put, and he sighs and slides off the bed.

  I don’t think it will be possible to sleep, not with him moving around wearing practically nothing, not with the spray of the shower, the thunk of his shampoo and conditioner bottles, the whirr of his electric razor. That’s the last thing I remember before sleep finally catches me. I’m out cold for hours, only jolting awake when the shaft of light visible through the drapes aligns perfectly with my face.

  A quick glance at his bedside clock tells me I’ve majorly overslept. Eleven AM—I can’t recall sleeping that late since high school.

  Professor Barclay’s house is dead quiet, and I’m back to feeling like an intruder. I sit on the edge of the bed, my feet dangling above the ground, and I look around me, careful not to move and disturb the quiet, as if someone will find out.

  His suit jacket lies folded on the back of a chair near the window. His gym bag hangs on the closet doorknob. I look behind me at the messy bed, and I indulge in the impulse to lean down and drop my face right into the center of Professor Barclay’s pillow. I fill my lungs with his scent, and it’s as heady as a drug. I’m calmed to the point of hypnosis. I stay like that, lying on his pillow, surrounded by him until my stomach rumbles one too many times.

  I have to get out of his bed, but I know the moment I do, it’ll be time for me to leave his house.

  Never once did he invite me to stay here while he was gone. Allowing me to sleep is one thing; allowing me to invade his space is another.

  Reluctantly, I stand and make his bed as neatly as possible, and when that’s done, I go straight from his bedroom to the guest room so I can change and collect my things. It’s like I’m worried cameras are watching my every move. I don’t want him to think I abused his privacy by rifling through his things, hunting through photos and mementos. After I’m dressed in my clothes from last night, I fold his t-shirt and set it on the edge of the bed, and then, fresh out of excuses to linger, I walk to the front door where I left my purse and shoes.