Gilded Desires

Chapter 3: Fortune Inn - Scorching

Clara Hayes was speechless—not because she was too embarrassed to continue the conversation, but because she had never met a man like Elliot Vance, who could deliver risqué remarks with such clinical detachment that they didn’t feel vulgar at all.

Dirty talk was usually crude, no matter who delivered it. But Elliot managed to make it sound like an academic debate—no lewdness, no sleaze. A true master of the craft.

"You win," Clara admitted, refilling his teacup. "I concede."

Elliot took a sip. "Say what you were thinking earlier."

Her respect for him grew.

Sharp, perceptive, immune to flattery—he noticed every micro-expression. Yet for all his control, how had a man like him ended up bankrupt?

She set the teapot down. "Mr. Vance, I have a question. Hope you won’t find it presumptuous."

"Ask properly, then." He wasn’t letting her deflect.

So much for dodging.

Seeing his expectant look, Clara figured she was already branded a pervert in his mind. Might as well commit. "Fine. What I wanted to ask was..."

"Would you say your... measurements lean toward thick or thin? Long or short?"

Her face burned.

Elliot hadn’t expected her to turn the question back on him—least of all that intimately.

"There’s a flaw in your query," he said, brow slightly furrowed. "Girth and length aren’t for me to judge. They’re for the user to assess. If I claimed mine was thick and long, but the user disagreed, who’s correct?"

The mental gymnastics were impressive.

But Clara wasn’t backing down. "Let’s use benchmarks. Eighteen centimeters in length. Six to eight in circumference."

To her shock, he replied earnestly, "Haven’t measured. I’ll get back to you."

"..." She had no comeback for that.

"Your original question?" Elliot remained unruffled.

Clara waved a hand. "Just deflection. Nothing important."

She’d realized asking about his bankruptcy would be tactless.

"But if you are staying long-term, I hope you’ll choose Fortune Inn. Yes, my mind’s in the gutter, but—" She flashed a sheepish grin. "I do have professional boundaries."

"You’re clever," Elliot said, standing. "And entertaining."

Clara perked up, scrambling to her feet.

"More than the setting, I prefer interesting company." He handed her his ID. "Extend my stay by a month."

She nearly vibrated with glee. "I knew you had excellent taste!"

Elliot smirked. "Keep flattering me, and I’ll revoke it."

She snatched his ID. "Too late."

At the front desk, she typed rapidly. "Employee discount—30% off! Same rate I give my best friend."

Elliot gave her a do-what-you-want look before stepping outside. Snow fell in thick flakes, the distant mountains stark against the gray sky. The view was... unexpectedly beautiful.

Since the bank froze his assets and bankruptcy rumors spread, he hadn’t noticed scenery. Shawn had insisted Fortune Inn would bring luck.

Luck was debatable. But fun? Absolutely.

The next morning.

The snow had stopped.

Elliot left for an errand while Clara shoveled the front walk. Kyle Wilkins—Mrs. Wilkins’ 24-year-old son, who ran a café-by-day, bar-by-night in town—spotted her and fetched help.

He took the shovel, handing her a broom instead.

"I can shovel," Clara said, exasperated.

"Just sweep, Fortune." Kyle’s drummer, Sid—gray-haired, eyebrow-less, and aggressively androgynous—tossed a snowball. "Our boy Kyle’s got energy to burn. Been punching walls at the bar all week."

The group howled.

"f**k off." Kyle, usually shy around Clara, hurled snow at Sid.

Clara wasn’t one to tolerate public innuendos. She packed a dense snowball and fired it at Sid’s shoulder. "Sounds like someone forgot what happened last time he ran his mouth."

"Christ, Fortune!" Sid rubbed his arm. "Okay, okay—I’ll shut up."

Satisfied, Clara dusted snow off her gloves—then froze.

Elliot stood nearby, two suitcases in hand, watching.

The group fell silent under his gaze.

Only Kyle stepped forward. "Let me get those, sir."

"Thanks." Elliot handed them over and headed inside.

Clara called after him, suddenly self-conscious. "Ah—Mr. Vance? The path’s still icy up ahead. Careful."

Why did she feel like a kid caught misbehaving?

Elliot glanced back, taking in her meek tone versus the snowball-sniper confidence of moments ago. The whiplash was almost impressive.

This woman is wasted as an innkeeper.