BABY

THAT WILL BE EXPENSIVE

Cold mist rushed through the open doorway after her, carrying wet earth and the brief scent of escape. Simon watched Connie cross the gravel drive without once looking back. That pleased him more than panic would have. Panic was common. Composure under pressure suggested stronger material.

Behind him, Damon dragged himself upright using the wall, spitting pink into the foyer.

“She’s mine,” Damon rasped.

Simon closed the door gently.

The latch clicked with satisfying finality.

“No,” he said, turning back. “She was with you. Those are different things.”

Damon lunged again because some men treated humiliation as fuel. Simon caught him by the throat this time and drove him backward into the wall hard enough to rattle the framed mirror above the entry table. Up close, Damon smelled of sweat, truck leather, and stale entitlement.

“You chased her here,” Simon said softly, tightening his grip just enough to pink the man’s eyes. “You frightened my guest. You bled on the floor.”

Damon clawed uselessly at his wrist.

Simon tilted his head, considering.

“That is three offenses before breakfast.”

He squeezed until Damon’s boots began scraping frantic little rhythms across the hardwood, then released him all at once. The man dropped hard, coughing at Simon’s feet, face mottled red and wet around the eyes. Better.

Simon crouched slowly, careful not to wrinkle his trousers.

“Listen closely,” he said, straightening Damon’s collar with two neat tugs. “You will leave this property now. You will drive far enough away that even your temper gets lost. You will not return today.”

Damon spat blood near his shoe.

“And if I don’t?”

Simon smiled with genuine warmth this time.

“Then I’ll let her watch the second lesson.”

For the first time since entering, uncertainty crossed Damon’s face cleanly enough to be admired.

Good.

Fear looked better on him than confidence ever had.

Simon rose and stepped aside, granting the path to the door like mercy he had not been asked for. Damon pushed himself up slowly, one hand against the wall, hatred gathering where strength had failed.

At the threshold he turned back.

“She always comes back,” he said hoarsely. “Women like her need men like me.”

Simon glanced toward the rain-fogged window where Connie’s tire tracks still cut fresh lines through the gravel.

“No,” he said quietly. “Women like her create men like you.”

Damon stared as if the sentence had struck harder than the rest of it. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, muttered something too small to matter, and limped into the mist toward his truck. A moment later the engine roared alive, tires spitting gravel as he tore back down the drive with all the grace of garbage leaving a curb.

Silence returned in pieces.

Simon closed the door, slid the bolt, and stood alone in the foyer among broken glass, spilled coffee, and the sweet metallic scent of someone else’s blood. Disorder everywhere. Typical.

He rolled his sleeves once and began cleaning.

The umbrella stand upright first. Shards of picture frame gathered into a dustpan. Blood wiped from the floorboards before it stained. Fresh towel for the mirror. Chairs reset. Coffee mopped. By the time he finished, the foyer looked almost innocent again.

Only then did he allow himself the luxury of stillness.

On the dining room table, Connie’s half-eaten strawberry remained beside the plate she’d abandoned. One bite missing. Lipstick faintly marked on the rim of her cup.

He carried both to the kitchen as carefully as relics.

In ten years, many women had left things behind.

Very few had left him interested.

He set the cup in the sink but did not wash it.

Not yet.

Some things improved when left touched a little longer.

The strawberry he placed on a small saucer by itself, red flesh drying slowly where her teeth had broken it. Waste usually offended him. Today it looked instructional. Appetite left marks no matter how elegantly dressed.

He moved to the front window and watched the empty drive. No truck. No taillights. No Connie.

Annoying.

He had expected her to flee. He had not expected how immediately the house felt altered by the absence. Rooms noticed certain people when they left. Air did too.

He glanced toward the guest ledger on the reception table.

Connie Applewood. Room Seven.

Still checked in.

A small comfort.

Then the telephone on the wall rang once, shrill enough to insult the morning.

He answered on the second ring.

“Blackthorn Inn.”

A pause.

Then a woman’s voice, low and amused.

“Did I leave my duffel bag there?”

Simon smiled before he meant to.

He let the silence linger half a beat, long enough to enjoy that she had called him rather than the police, roadside assistance, or whichever friend women claimed to have when they wanted to sound less alone.

“You did,” he said at last. “Blue canvas. Heavy enough to suggest trust issues.”

A soft laugh came through the line, warm and edged.

“Or shoes.”

“Those too.”

He glanced toward the chair beside the dining room doorway where the bag still sat exactly where she’d abandoned it in flight. Untouched on the outside. Considered thoroughly in theory.

“I’m about twenty minutes away,” Connie said. “Unless your psycho breakfast club is still in session.”

“Mr. Damon has checked out.”

“Alive?”

“Technically.”

That laugh again, fuller this time.

Interesting how quickly certain sounds became preferable.

“I need my things,” she said.

“No,” Simon replied mildly. “You need to return for them.”

A pause.

Then, lower now:

“Was that flirting or kidnapping?”

He looked up toward the ceiling where Room Seven waited above them, bed still unmade, tea cup cooling on the nightstand.

“Yes,” he said.

For the first time since she’d called, Connie said nothing.

He imagined her somewhere on the roadside with one hand on the wheel, mouth parted in either annoyance or amusement. With her, the two likely shared a closet.

“You’re strange,” she said finally.

“I run an inn. It’s practically municipal law.”

“You assaulted a man before breakfast.”

“He arrived rude.”

“That doesn’t answer the charge.”

“It reframes it.”

He heard her exhale through what sounded like a smile. Then the quieter noises around her, tires on wet pavement, turn signal clicking, the sealed hum of a car cabin. She was already turning around before admitting it.

Good.

“I’m coming for my bag,” she said.

“Of course.”

“And if Damon is there, I’m leaving again.”

“I’d be disappointed.”

“You’ll survive.”

“That remains untested.”

Another pause, thinner this time, threaded with something less playful and more careful.

“Who are you?” she asked.

He looked at the ledger, then at the lipstick trace still drying on her abandoned cup.

“Simon Ray,” he said. “Your host.”

He hung up before questions could multiply.

He stood with the receiver in his hand a moment longer, listening to the dead line as if it might offer applause. Then he set it gently back in its cradle and began preparing for her return.

Fresh coffee first.

Women forgave more when the room smelled useful.

He ground the beans by hand, enjoying the measured labor of it, then set water to boil and opened the pantry for bread, preserves, and the better butter reserved for guests worth lying to. The kitchen brightened around him as morning climbed higher through the windows.

He chose a clean vase and cut three white roses from the side garden.

One for beauty.

One for apology.

One for intention.

He arranged them at the small dining table where she had sat across from him, adjusting stems until the angles pleased him. Then he carried her duffel to the reception desk and placed it where she could see it immediately, close enough to reassure, far enough to require entering fully.

Presentation mattered.

Before anything else, he went upstairs to Room Seven.

The bed still held the shape of her sleep. Her tea sat half-finished on the nightstand. A strand of dark hair clung to the pillowcase like a signature.

Simon touched it once with the tip of one finger.

Then he smiled and began making the room ready for a second night.

He changed the sheets first.

Not because they needed changing, but because anticipation deserved ceremony. Fresh linen snapped clean beneath his hands, corners tucked sharp enough to satisfy him. He smoothed the blanket twice, then a third time when twice proved careless.

Her half-finished tea he carried to the sink and poured out slowly, watching the amber ribbon vanish down the drain. New tea would be made when she arrived. Better tea. Stronger, if necessary.

In the bathroom, he replaced the towels with warmer ones from the drying rack and set out unopened soaps wrapped in paper. Small kindnesses often disguised larger intentions.

He checked the hidden panel in the wall next, sliding it open and shut until it moved without sound. Hinges oiled. Viewing hole clear. Passage swept. Some habits survived even when romance interrupted routine.

Downstairs, tires crackled over gravel.

Right on time.

Simon straightened, adjusted his cuffs, and looked once more around Room Seven.

Then he heard the front door open below and Connie Applewood call into the house:

“Try anything weird and I’m stealing something expensive.”

Simon descended the stairs without rushing, one hand gliding lightly along the polished banister. Some entrances benefited from haste. Others improved when allowed to arrive.

Connie stood in the foyer exactly where he had imagined her and still managed to surprise the room. Jeans now hugged long legs built for impatience, the oversized shirt knotted at one hip as if comfort had lost an argument with vanity. Sunglasses sat in her hair despite the overcast morning, and she held herself with the wary ease of someone prepared to flirt, flee, or stab depending on customer service.

Her eyes moved over him once.

Inventory again.

“Nice place,” she said. “Better when it isn’t bleeding.”