couldn’t catch her breath didn’t mean anything. Not anything except that it was going to be a warm day and that the Ohio humidity was headed from sticky all the way to downright sultry.
Just because Gabe (definitely) let his gaze slip from her hair to her face and from her face to her neck and from her neck to her breasts and then back up again, didn’t mean she had to feel self-conscious about the smear of flour on her cheek, or the freckles sprinkled across her nose like cinnamon, or her electric-blue, sleeveless sundress, the one cut just low enough to show a little more skin than any guest had a right to see.
When he got around to looking her in the eye again, she was ready for him. “Are you done now—” Although she’d watched him sign his name, she glanced down at the guest register anyway. It seemed like a better option than drowning in those brandy-colored eyes. “—Mr. Morrison?”
“You can call me Gabe.” One corner of his mouth twitched into a smile. “And I can call you—”
“Meg.” It was a better answer than anytime. Which, for some unaccountable reason, was what she was tempted to say. In fact, she was tempted to say a lot of things. Like how tired he looked and how stiff his muscles seemed and how—once long ago and far, far away—she’d been known as the best sore-muscle massager on the east coast.
Like it or not, thinking about Baltimore and massaging sore muscles made Meg think of Ben. Sore muscles, sore egos. And that brought up a whole lot of memories that had been and still were a sore point.
Rather than risk even the remote chance of adding more painful experiences to her history, she decided it was smarter to keep the conversation on safer subjects. “How do you know all that stuff, anyway?” she asked Gabe. “About Duke and Diana. Was it in the latest issue of People or something?”
“Actually…” For just a second, she saw the weight of the world lift from his shoulders. As if he was used to receiving compliments and the rewards that went along with them, he stood tall and flashed her a smile so devastating, she found herself catching her breath. Just as quickly, the expression dissolved and he was back to looking tired and worried. “People? Yeah, something like that.”
Meg could take a hint as well as anyone. Some matters were best left alone. Especially when there was a chance that bringing them up might offend one of Maisie’s guests.
“I’ll show you up to your room. I’m Maisie’s granddaughter and the chef around here. Greeting the guests isn’t usually my job, but Maisie’s a little busy.” The lie came out as smoothly as peanut butter. It stuck in her throat just the way peanut butter always did. But then, she figured a little lie was better than the big ol’ truth, especially when the truth was all about how Maisie just happened to get busy at the most inopportune times.
Like when a handsome, unattached guy was checking into the Hideaway all by his handsome, unattached self.
Like when Maisie’s stick-her-head-in-the-sand granddaughter was insisting she was doing just fine on her own, thank you very much, and that she didn’t need anyone or anything to make her make her happy or to fill that little hollow spot right where her heart used to be. The spot that had always seemed filled to overflowing when Ben was around.
Meg dashed the thought away and grabbed the brass key chain with the name of the room etched on it. She dangled it in front of Gabe. “You’re lucky there was a cancellation. This room is usually the first one to get booked.” When he didn’t respond to her offer of help with his luggage, she walked around to the other side of the desk and stepped aside so he could start up the stairs ahead of her. It took her a second to realize he hadn’t moved—and that Gabe looked as if someone had pulled the tablecloth magic trick on him, too.
“What did that say?” He pointed at the key chain in her hand. “That key chain, what—”
“There are four of them,” Meg explained. She glanced back to the desk, where the keys hung on their little brass hooks when guests weren’t using them. “One for each room. There’s Smooth Operator, our secret-agent room. And Almost Paradise. That’s sort of a tropical theme, what Maisie likes to call her Garden of Eden room. And then there’s Close to the Heart.” She made a face because although that particular room was popular with guests, it wasn’t her favorite. “Red velvet, lace, plenty of cupids,” she said, as if that would explain it all. “And this one. An experience straight out of the King’s life. Complete with blue suede shoes under the bed.” She tossed the key chain up in the air. “You’re staying in—”
Before Meg could catch it, Gabe reached out and grabbed the key chain. Staring at it, his cheeks went dark and he made a funny, choking sound. “Love Me Tender? You’re kidding, right?”
Meg grinned. “Last room on the island.”
“Right.” His shoulders slumped, Gabe stepped around a display of brightly wrapped packages and started up the winding stairs that led to the second floor and the inn’s guest rooms. “Looks like I’m stuck.”
Stuck?
Stuck was one concept Meg didn’t want to think about. Not when it came to Love Me Tender. Because when she thought about Love Me Tender and she thought about stuck, she just naturally thought about the Crawfords. And thinking about the Crawfords made her all too aware that she was studying every detail of the way Gabe’s jeans were worn and smooth over his backside.
“Not a good idea,” she reminded herself. She shook away the notion as well as the sensations cascading through her. The ones that made her feel as if she’d just gone under a Lake Erie wave and was having trouble coming up for breath.
Truth be told, she knew she’d be better off keeping her gaze on anything but Gabriel Morrison’s rear end.
Which only made her notice exactly where she was still looking.
Meg grumbled a warning to herself. If she wasn’t careful, she’d get trapped by the siren-call of lust and the heady promise of romance.
And that meant she could get stuck, too. Just like she had back in Baltimore when she refused to believe that Ben could be so heartless as to pretend to love her just so he could get his hands on her cooking secrets. She’d been blind. She’d been stupid. And until she came to her senses, what she got in return for trusting him with her heart was a mess of a relationship she should have gotten unstuck from long before.
No way.
No how.
Meg let the words echo through her head, a mantra designed to keep her fantasies at bay.
Stuck, she promised herself, was something she’d never get again.
Chapter Two
“Stuck.”
Gabe couldn’t imagine why, but when he grumbled the word, Meg’s face went a little pale and her steps faltered.
“What’s that you said?” She stopped a couple of feet away and gave him the kind of look he usually reserved for folks on the subway who talked to the empty seats beside them.
“I said stuck.” Gabe rattled the brass knob on the door next to a metal sculpture that took up a good portion of the hallway wall. He knew he had the right room.
As if to reassure himself, he glanced at the artwork. It wasn’t
