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“So, what are you working on?” he asked again.
She ambled over to the window and looked out. It wasn’t raining and—wonder of wonders— patches of blue were peeking through the clouds.
“A story.” She tossed the words nonchalantly over her shoulder.
“About?”
“Don’t worry, it’s not about you,” she sniped, turning back to face him.
He didn’t respond to that, merely stared, his beautiful eyes filled with gentle censure, and that annoyed Iris because it made her feel irrationally guilty. Which, in turn, made her feel defensive because if anyone should feel guilty here it should be Trystan.
“I need a new room,” she muttered, and the expression in his gaze morphed into concern.
“Of course,” he said. “Pick one and I’ll move your bags.”
“That’s fine, I’ll move my own bags.”
“Don’t be silly, Iris, I’m happy to do it.”
She nodded and picked up her laptop. As she headed toward the door, she was aware of him getting up as well, and her gaze flew up to meet his in alarm.
“What are you doing? Are you following me?”
“If I’m to bring your bags, I’ll need to know which room you’re moving to.” His tone of voice was so reasonable it made her feel immediately churlish and paranoid.
She didn’t say anything in response, but as she exited the very pretty light- and plant-filled solarium he ushered her to the left.
“The spare bedrooms are down this way,” he told her. She mutely turned in the direction he’d indicated and was utterly unsurprised to discover that the two spare bedrooms were on either side of his room.
Because, of course, they were.
“There are only two spare bedrooms in this gigantic house?” she asked skeptically.
“There are four other bedrooms, excluding the suite you were staying in, but they’re in the Hollingsworths’ private living quarters. They’ve requested that I—and any of my guests—make use of this wing of the house only.”
“Oh. I’m not your guest though.”
“Neither are you theirs.”
Fair enough.
“In that case, this room is fine,” Iris said, picking the smaller of the two. The one Trystan had led her to—God, had it really only been five days ago?—after they’d spent the morning hauling sandbags. A comfortable space dressed in russets and browns, with a queen-sized bed and a small en suite bathroom.
Trystan nodded and turned to walk away.
Iris ventured into the lovely room. Whomever had decorated this house had amazing taste, everything had definitely been designed with comfort in mind.
Trystan returned shortly with her handbag slung over one shoulder and her suitcases rolling behind him. Luna ambled lazily along behind him, curious about the activity.
“Thank you,” Iris said.
He nodded, dropping her handbag on the bed and standing in the middle of the room with his hands thrust into the pockets of the black dropped-crotch fleecy joggers he was wearing. He stared at her moodily from beneath the fall of pitch-black hair that had flopped to his forehead.
“Iris, it occurs to me that I haven’t—uhm—I haven’t apologized.” His voice was gruff, filled with awkward self-consciousness.
“Hmm,” she hummed noncommittally. “That had occurred to me as well.”
His shoulders hunched defensively and his brow lowered. His lips tightened and his beard bristled as his jaw clenched.
