Kate Hoffmann - Compromising Positions

“I still don’t understand why you have to ‘acquire’ my bed,” he said. “Any piece from the period should do.”

“Have we determined that it is your bed?”

“The bed has belonged to my family since the inn opened. Abigail bought it when we were short of funds, but she promised to return it to its rightful place.”

“We’re opening a new children’s exhibit about George Washington for President’s Day. The bed will be the perfect centerpiece for the gallery. Kids could lie on it and take photos, and we’ll get lots of publicity. Which is always good for the museum.”

“So my bed is going to be a...a historical bouncy house? Why not throw any old bed into the exhibit? No one is going to know any better.”

“I have a reputation for authenticity to protect,” she said. “And I can’t be sentimental.”

“I think a better word might be sympathetic or kind.”

“You can’t make me feel guilty,” she said.

“What can I make you feel?” he asked. The moment the words slipped out of his mouth, Sam realized his mistake. What the hell was he thinking? A cultured woman like Amelia would never respond to such a suggestive comment.

“I—I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” she murmured.

“I should get back to work,” he said quickly. “Is there anything else I can get you, Ms. Sheffield?”

“No,” she murmured. “I’m quite content, Mr. Blackstone.”

He got up and walked to the kitchen, refusing to look back. So much for charm, Sam mused. He’d been right the first time: it was going to take a lot more than awkward small talk and apple pie to seduce Amelia Sheffield. He had one more day to figure this all out. One day to take this attraction beyond the theoretical to something real. Or else she’d be on her way back to Boston—with his bed.

2

AMELIA STARED UP at the ceiling of her room at the Blackstone Inn. Somewhere deep inside the darkened inn, a grandfather clock chimed. She counted three chimes, then threw her arm over her eyes. But nothing she did helped her find the peace of sleep.

She sat up, tossed aside the down-filled pillow and swung her legs off the bed. She needed something to eat. Just a little something to get her through until breakfast. Her mind was racing with thoughts of work and Sam Blackstone; a confusing jumble that didn’t make any sense no matter how hard she tried to put it all in order.

She grabbed her sweater and pulled it on over her T-shirt and yoga pants, then searched her bag for something to put on her feet. She found a pair of socks and slipped them on. Dragging a deep breath, she snuck out into the dimly lit hall and headed for the stairs.

The stairs creaked with each step she took and Amelia winced, wondering just how far away the family slept. She assumed they had quarters somewhere in one of the newer wings. By the time she reached the kitchen, her heart was pounding and she was breathless.

“Apple pie,” she murmured. She and Sam had taken the first two pieces of the freshly baked pie. All the other guests had eaten and left the dining room by the time Amelia had finished. So the rest of the pie had to be around somewhere. Amelia searched the refrigerator first but all she found was the can of whipped cream. A search of the freezer resulted in a carton of vanilla ice cream. But there was no pie.

Amelia glanced around the kitchen and noticed an old pie safe. Tall and narrow, the ancient cabinet sat in a spot near the stone hearth. She walked over to it and ran her hand across the pierced tin panels on the door. Of course the pie would be in the pie safe.

To her surprise there was also a raspberry pie tucked in beneath the apple. She pulled them both out, set them on the island and grabbed a dinner plate and fork from the drying rack beside the sink.

The pie tasted as good as it had earlier that evening, and Amelia’s thoughts drifted back to the man who’d shared her table in the dining room.

She’d only ever had one boyfriend in her life and to say that Sam Blackstone was his exact opposite was stating the absolute truth.

Her thoughts shifted to Edward. She wasn’t really sure what to call him anymore. He’d been her boyfriend, then her fiancé and then her ex-fiancé and then her friend. He’d said he’d wait for her, but as time passed, their relationship had grown more and more distant.

Amelia took another bite of the pie and sighed softly. Edward Ardmore Reed the Third. Heir to an old and very successful Boston banking dynasty. He’d been the only man she’d ever loved. At least she’d thought she’d loved him. But he’d been her parents’ choice from a very early age. She hadn’t even dated anyone else. And when she’d broken from her parents’ control, she’d ended her engagement, as well.

In her anger and frustration, she’d thrown him in with her parents, certain that he’d try to control her life the moment her parents signed her over to him. He’d always been good to her, but Amelia wanted more.

They’d stayed in touch over the past year and Amelia knew that he hadn’t given up hope she’d come to her senses. But though there was affection between them, there had never been any heat or passion.

“Can’t sleep?”

The sound of his voice startled her and she spun around to find Sam watching her from the shadows. Her heart skipped a beat, then began pounding in earnest. “I—I didn’t see you there.” Amelia looked around, embarrassed to be caught raiding the kitchen. “I’m sorry. I’m a late-night snacker. I can’t sleep if I’m hungry.”

“It’s all right,” he said, stepping forward. “If you need anything, you just have to call.”

He was dressed only in a pair of basketball shorts that were slung low on his hips. His chest was bare, as were his feet. A tiny shiver skittered through her and her fingers twitched, eager to trace the muscles of his chest. “Would you like some?” Amelia asked.

“Sure.”

He pulled out a stool and sat at the island. “It’s been kind of a crazy day,” he murmured as he watched Amelia cut into the pie.

“Pretty crazy,” she repeated. “Not the typical day in the life of an innkeeper.”

“It’s an exciting life,” he muttered, a sarcastic edge in his voice. “Just what a guy like me always dreamed about.”

“You didn’t want to be an innkeeper?”

Sam took a bite of the pie. “Maybe at some point in my life. But not at twenty-five. To be tied down to one place for the rest of my life is kind of a daunting prospect.”

“Can’t you sell the inn?”

He shook his head. “This is a family business. It’s passed down from generation to generation, from the first son to the first son. And I got lucky. If I’d been the second son of the second son, I could have been an architect. Building great buildings instead of fixing leaky pipes.”

“You have Sarah to help you.”

“She stays out of guilt.”

“Why?”

“The tradition is that the inn is passed along in a person’s later years, almost like a job for retirement. I got it about thirty years early because my father and stepmother wanted out.”

“What about your mother?”

“They divorced when I was ten,” he said. “My mother never wanted the whole inn-keeping life. It’s a twenty-four-hour-a-day job. The demands never go away.” He sighed deeply, then rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t complain. Hell, I have a job and it’s not like I’m digging ditches for a living.” Sam pushed back from the counter. “I’m just going to leave you to your pie.”

“Don’t,” she said, reaching out to grab his hand. “I like the company.”

“The grumpy company?”

“You’re not grumpy.” She smiled. “Well, maybe a little bit. But that’s what the pie is for. Pie always brightens one’s spirits. Look at that cabinet over there. It’s quite a wonderful piece. A Colonial-era pie safe.”