The woman at the counter looked over the top of her glasses at them, one eyebrow raised in disbelief. She had the worn, kindly look of a grandmother, but Poppy recognized her and knew she was nothing of the sort. Well, she was probably a grandmother, but not a kindly one. More than once, she’d tramped through the forest toward the Pit with a shotgun, shouting statistics about how likely the police would be to believe she’d mistaken a juvenile delinquent for a black bear. Poppy squirmed in her too-wet, too-revealing clothes. “No. We just need a room. Two rooms,” she hastily amended, refusing to look at Asprey. She’d already made the mistake of following him into the B&B. There wasn’t a dry patch of him left. Even though he wore his signature layers of preppy clothing, it wasn’t difficult to make out each twitch of muscle under his clothes, his dark jeans heavy enough to hang a bit lower on his hips than they normally did. When he’d leaned in to help her off the motorcycle, she could actually see the line of his tan, where golden skin met the chalky whiteness of an ass whose rounded deliciousness she couldn’t stop imagining between her teeth.
