In the twenty-four hours since I met Beau Rochester, he’s taken on a larger-than-life space in my mind. He seems taller than men should be, stronger than they usually are. Fiercer in every way.

It’s a figment of my imagination, of course.

A side effect of meeting him in such a strange situation. But now that I see him standing over me, his chest bare, revealing muscles and a dark covering of hair, the gauzy light tracing the planes of his body, I realize it was accurate all along.

He shakes his head, still shocked about the whole cold situation. “You got here last night. Were you shivering in your room then, too?”

“Pretty much.” Maybe I was exhausted by the plane ride and the kitten interview, because I eventually went to sleep. Though I was frozen solid when I woke up.

“There’s this crazy thing called the Internet. Even here at the Coach House we can get deliveries from Amazon. Why didn’t you just order something with same-day delivery?”

“Because someone threatened to fire me, and there’s barely enough money in my bank account right now for a flight back to Houston until I get paid.”

“Christ.” He looks more furious than he should be for an employee being cold.

“Listen, if I found something that was clearly special—an embroidered baby cap or a wedding dress—I wasn’t going to touch them. I just thought there might be a pile of blankets around. It seemed like those would be useful here in Maine.”

“Ms. Mendoza. The attic is strictly off-limits to you. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Follow me.” He turns and stomps down the steps. I follow him more slowly, not eager for him to yell at me more or to return to my freezing room.

Mr. Rochester opens a door opposite mine. Inside I see a navy bedspread. It must be his room. He yanks the bedspread off and holds it up without a word. His brown eyes glint in the moonlight, sharp with demand or promise or something I’m afraid to name.

“I couldn’t. It’s your bedspread. If I take it, then you’ll be cold.”

“I went camping at Acadia National Park when I was ten. I won’t die. You, however.” He takes in my hard nipples and goose bump-covered legs in one dismissive glance. “I don’t need the agency asking questions if you freeze to death.”

“Is there maybe another room we could take it from?”

“No.” The answer does not invite more questions.

“The room with the watch and the teacup? It’s bigger than this one. The master bedroom.” I look around the room, as small and bare as mine. “Why don’t you sleep there?”

“You went in there? Jesus Christ.”

“Let me guess. That one’s forbidden too. Like the attic.”

He makes a grunt in agreement.