Chapter 4: One Bed

The east room had one bed, a fireplace, and a rug older than my country.

The housekeeper left a folded gray T-shirt on the pillow, a pair of men's pajama pants, and a toothbrush still in its wrapper.

Then she closed the door and the latch clicked.

"She's thorough," I said.

"She's eighty percent of the reason I never lie to my grandmother," Rhys said.

"Which is twenty percent of the reason you're in trouble right now."

"I'm in trouble because of you."

"You're in trouble because of your face," I said. "Nobody told you not to open your mouth in a board meeting."

He took off his jacket and hung it on a chair.

He undid his cuffs, one and then the other, and rolled his sleeves to the elbow.

His forearms were corded and tanned, and I looked at them for longer than I meant to.

"I'll take the floor," he said.

"You're a grown man in a four hundred dollar shirt," I said. "You'll take the left side of the bed."

"That's the side by the window."

"Then you'll be cold. Good."

He almost smiled.

I went into the bathroom with the gray T-shirt and changed with the door shut.

When I came out he was sitting on the edge of the bed with his phone, in the pajama pants and nothing else.

I stopped in the doorway.

He had a broad chest and a scar low on his ribs.

A line of dark hair ran down from his navel and disappeared under the waistband.

He looked up.

"Pillows," I said, too fast.

I grabbed four off the bed and stacked them down the middle in a wall.

"That won't stop me," he said.

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