BABY

BABY

“I’ve had it polished.”

She glanced to the reception desk and saw the duffel waiting.

“Good,” she said, stepping toward it. “I’ll take my things and continue making regrettable choices elsewhere.”

“You could,” Simon said.

The words made her pause just enough to be useful.

He gestured toward the dining room where coffee perfumed the air and three white roses waited on the table like polite lies.

“Or,” he said, “you could stay for the apology course.”

She followed the gesture with her eyes, taking in the coffee, the flowers, the neatly reset room, all of it arranged with enough care to feel either thoughtful or dangerous depending on what kind of life had trained you.

“Is the apology coffee poisoned,” she asked, “or is that only the welcome tea?”

“Neither was poisoned.”

“Drugged, then.”

He considered lying and disliked how unnecessary it felt.

“Lightly assisted,” he said.

Her brows lifted.

“You roofied me with herbs?”

“I helped you sleep.”

“I sleep great after felonies.”

“That was not the impression you gave.”

She stared at him for a beat that would have unnerved kinder men.

Then she laughed once, sharp and incredulous.

“You are out of your entire mind.”

“Frequently alleged.”

She crossed to the desk, took hold of the duffel, then stopped again when the smell of fresh coffee reached her properly.

He watched appetite argue with caution across her face.

One of his favorite contests.

“I should leave,” she said, more to herself than to him.

“Yes.”

“I should also report you.”

“Probably.”

“I might steal your roses on principle.”

“They were cut for theft-resistant admiration.”

That almost-smile touched her mouth before she caught it.

Annoying how attractive defiance could be when properly tailored.

She dropped the duffel back beside the desk with a theatrical sigh.

“One cup,” she said. “Then I’m gone.”

“People say that here often.”

“Do they mean it less than I do?”

“Usually.”

He led her into the dining room where the coffee waited dark and fragrant in a silver pot. She chose the chair she’d taken earlier rather than the one he pulled out for her.

Consistent.

He poured.

She watched his hands the entire time.

Smarter than most.

When he set the cup before her, she did not touch it immediately.

“New rule,” she said. “If I wake up in a cage, I’m leaving a terrible review.”

Simon sat across from her, folded his napkin once, and met her gaze.

“If you wake up in a cage,” he said, “hospitality has already failed us both.”

She laughed despite herself and hated him a little for earning it. He could see that plainly enough. Some emotions arrived in people before manners had time to dress them.

Connie lifted the cup, inhaled once, then took a cautious sip. No fear this time. Only negotiation.

“Better,” she said.

“I took the criticism seriously.”

“I didn’t offer criticism.”

“You implied standards.”

She set the cup down and reached for one of the roses, turning the stem slowly between her fingers. Thorns removed. Of course they were.

“You do this for all your guests?” she asked.

“Which part?”

“The curated weirdness.”

“Only the returning ones.”

Her eyes flicked up to him.

“That sounds less charming the second time.”

“It improves with repetition.”

Outside, tires crackled faintly on gravel again.

Connie’s shoulders tightened before the sound had fully formed.

Simon noticed.

So did she.

She set the rose down too carefully and turned toward the window without appearing to. Old instincts, polished ones. The kind built from learning danger rarely announced itself twice.

“Tell me that isn’t him,” she said quietly.

“I could,” Simon replied. “Accuracy would suffer.”

Her jaw tightened.

Across the drive, a dark truck had stopped near the gate this time instead of the porch. Engine running. Driver still inside. Watching the house through rain-dulled glass.

Damon was learning distance.

How disappointing.

“He’s not coming in,” Connie said, though whether it was statement, hope, or command remained undecided.

“Not presently.”

“I’m serious.”

“So is he.”

She stood abruptly, chair legs scraping wood. “I’m not doing this weird triangle with you two.”

Simon remained seated.

“There are only two points interested in geometry,” he said. “He’s one. I’m the other.”

“And me?”

“The reason lines get drawn.”

“That was disgusting,” she said.

“It was accurate.”

“It was rehearsed.”

“I improved it while you were standing.”

She snatched up her duffel, slung it over one shoulder, and marched toward the foyer with the determined stride of a woman who preferred bad exits to good captivity. Simon followed at a civilized distance, carrying only his coffee.

At the front door she stopped, hand on the knob, eyes fixed through the glass at the idling truck beyond the mist.

Damon climbed out the moment he saw movement inside.

Even from across the drive, aggression had timing.

Connie muttered something inventive under her breath.

“Still leaving?” Simon asked.

She shot him a glare sharp enough to skin fruit.

“I hate that tone.”

“It’s one of my better ones.”

Damon started up the walk.

Connie looked from the approaching man to the quiet house behind her, then back again.

For the first time since arriving, indecision touched her cleanly.

Simon noticed everything.

“Room Seven is still available,” he said softly.

She turned slowly, staring at him as if deciding whether murder could be justified by tone alone.

“You engineered this.”

“No.”

“You enjoyed this.”

“Yes.”

Damon’s boots hit the porch steps outside, heavy and fast.

Connie swore, dropped the duffel again, and shoved past Simon into the foyer.

“One night,” she snapped. “One. Then I’m gone.”

“Guests often announce goals before missing them.”

“Shut up.”

“With pleasure.”

He opened the closet beside the staircase, removed a fresh room key, and placed it in her palm just as Damon pounded against the front door.

The brass was warm from his hand.

Her eyes flicked to it, then to him.

“If I die here,” she said, “I’m haunting selectively.”

“I’d expect standards.”

The pounding came again, louder.

Simon leaned close enough for only her to hear.

“Go upstairs, Connie Applewood.”

Something in the way he said her name made her hesitate half a heartbeat too long.

Then she ran for the stairs.

Simon waited until her footsteps reached the landing before he opened the door.

Damon pushed halfway through immediately, wet with mist and anger, only to stop short when he found Simon standing squarely in the frame with one hand braced overhead.

“Where is she?”

“Good morning again.”

“Don’t play with me.”

“You make it difficult not to.”

Damon tried to shoulder past him. Simon stepped aside just enough to let momentum betray the man, sending him stumbling into the entry table. Keys rattled. A ceramic bowl shattered against the floor.

Upstairs, a door closed quickly.

Damon’s head snapped toward the sound.

There it was.

Proof.

He surged for the staircase.

Simon caught the back of his jacket, yanked him hard enough to choke the charge out of him, then drove him face-first into the banister post.

Wood thudded. Damon roared.

“Your volume,” Simon said mildly, tightening his grip. “Is becoming repetitive.”

Damon twisted wildly, throwing an elbow backward that clipped Simon’s ribs more by luck than skill. Pain flashed bright and brief. Simon appreciated reminders that bodies were real.

He answered by driving a knee into Damon’s lower back and forcing him down across the first stair, cheek crushed to polished wood.

“Get off me!”

“No.”

“You think she wants you?”

Simon considered that while adjusting the angle of pressure on the man’s neck.

“Want is a volatile metric,” he said. “At present she prefers me conscious.”

Damon spat blood onto the stair tread.

“She’ll leave you too.”

“Almost certainly.”

He hauled Damon upright by the collar and slammed him once into the wall beneath the framed mirror. Glass trembled in its hooks.

Upstairs, floorboards creaked.

Connie was listening.

Excellent.

Simon leaned close to Damon’s ear.

“You keep confusing possession with memory,” he murmured. “They are not the same disease.”

He dragged Damon backward through the foyer and flung the front door wide with his free hand. Cold air rushed in, sharp with rain and mud.

“Leave,” Simon said.

Damon laughed hoarsely through blood and fury. “You think this is over?”

“I think you’re on my rug.”

He shoved him hard enough to send the larger man sprawling across the porch boards, one shoulder striking the railing before he crashed onto the steps. Damon cursed, struggled up, then stopped halfway when he saw something above him.

Connie stood at the second-floor window.

One hand on the curtain.

Watching.

Damon’s whole face changed.

Softened first.

Then begged.

“Connie, baby, come with me. You know me. You know I lose my temper, but you know me.”

From inside the foyer, Simon went very still.

Baby.

The word slid through him like a key finding an old lock.