He went to the bathroom to splash water on his face and laughed when he saw the old-fashioned separate hot and cold spigots. Between the cross and the antiquated inn, no wonder Emma and her straitlaced attitude seemed to come from some other era.
He patted his face dry and finger-combed his wavy locks, then jogged down the creaky stairs. The parlor was still empty, so Wyatt went to fetch a bottle of water. He wandered through the dining hall—a cozy paneled room with four round tables—into the kitchen.
Emma’s space, he thought. Like the rest of the inn, it looked tired. The stainless steel industrial appliances appeared newer, but the yellowing, unadorned oak cabinetry didn’t, nor did the checkerboard vinyl flooring. At least the large window above the huge sink let in ample natural light.
God, he’d hate to be stuck inside cooking for and cleaning up after people. Such a lonely, stifling way to spend day after day. What made her choose this life? Shaking away the stray thought, he grabbed a water bottle and closed the refrigerator.
On his way out, he heard a shuffling noise and humming coming from around the corner. Then a feminine voice broke into the chains-and-whips refrain of Rihanna’s “S&M.” It must be Emma, although that would be the very last song he’d imagine her liking. Intrigued, he crept around the corner and peered into a sizable walk-in pantry to find Emma—back turned to him—dancing while taking inventory.
His brain simultaneously took in a few things. One, Emma had the music turned up so loud that, even from a distance, he could hear the tinny beat pulsing from her earbuds. Two, it had been ages since he’d seen anything as erotic as the contrast between her prudishness and the sensual swivel of her ass as she danced by herself. And three, if he closed the door, this pantry would become a dark, private cocoon.
A smile tugged at his mouth. Before he even considered the consequences, he stepped behind her, wrapped one arm around her waist, and tried to dance with her.
“Whaa!” she screeched, springing into the air like the cats in those cucumber Vines. Adrenaline gripped her hard, as evidenced by the tremble rippling down her body.
“Sorry!” Unable to help himself, he chuckled. “Really sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
She yanked the earbuds from her ears. Her indignant expression somehow made her look sexy, despite that hideous sweater. Damn if he didn’t want to grab her by that stupid knot in her hair and kiss her. Who knew? Underneath the ugly clothes and prudish attitude, she might be a little bit fun. Might even yield to him and enjoy things like handcuffs and other sex games.
Then, like a chameleon, she transformed before his eyes, shuttering her emotions and resuming control over herself. He admired control. Ruthlessly strove for it in his own life, although not always with success, as his impulsive attempt to dance with her just proved.
She smoothed the stray hairs from her face and shooed him out of the pantry. “I assume you didn’t come to the kitchen to dance. What do you need?”
So businesslike. But now he knew better. Then again, it didn’t matter. He couldn’t indulge his curiosity. Shit, he had to meet with Mari. He had to train!
“Just this.” He held up the water bottle. “I heard singing, though, so I came to investigate.” And because he wanted to provoke her, he added, “Interesting song choice.”
Oh, too easy. A streak of red rushed to her cheeks. He wondered how easily he might be able to make other parts of her body turn pink, too? Stop it. Apparently it took no encouragement to provoke him into flirting with Emma. Something about her weakened his control.
“Well, then, now that you’ve uncovered the big mystery, I assume you have a schedule to keep, as do I.” She folded her arms in front of her body and offered him an ever-so-polite yet placating smile.
“That I do.” He nodded, knowing he should feel grateful that she didn’t encourage his interest. Of course, gratitude did not wash over him. He left the kitchen, going directly to the hexagonally shaped parlor near the front of the inn, where Mari and the crew were already seated and looking over the shooting schedule.
“Oh, good. You’re here.” Mari handed him a schedule—a gray and white grid with daily sunrise and sunset times, location designations, and other information. “It’s really important that we adhere to the schedule in order to avoid cost overruns or missing certain shots and so on.”
Mari smiled—a tight grin. In truth, she made him a little nervous. He could sense her ambition from a hundred yards away, which made him very aware that he was just a means to an end.
“I understand the importance of a schedule,” Wyatt replied. He pointed at the words “establishing shots” on the calendar. “What’s this mean? I thought we did that back in Vermont with my mom.”