Private Affairs. Tori Carrington

double bed. Her great-aunt tugged it from her grip and gave it a thorough inspection.

      “What are you looking for?” Penelope rose up on her elbows.

      Irene plucked at something and then held up what appeared to be a single hair. She frowned. “What color is his hair?”

      “Blond.”

      “This is dark.”

      Penelope gave an exasperated eye roll. “Probably it’s Thor’s.”

      Her aunt sighed and then dropped the hair, brushing her hands together.

      “Well, whose did you expect it to be?” Penelope asked with a raised brow.

      Her grandmother came up the other side of the bed. “Don’t play coy with me, little girl. You know perfectly well who. I changed the sheets yesterday special for the occasion.” She considered Penelope through narrow eyes. “The question is, did you make good use of them?”

      Penelope swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up. It was far too early for this. “Of course, I made good use of them. I slept on them.”

      She dragged her robe from where it lay over the wicker chair in the corner and put it on, weaving her way around the two old women planted in her room. Unsurprisingly, they gave chase, following her to the kitchen where she took a cup out of the cabinet and poured a hefty dose of coffee from the maker.

      “So we went to Seattle for nothing, then,” her aunt said with a deep sigh.

      Penelope remembered what had transpired in the gazebo and silently told them they hadn’t wasted a minute. She took a deep sip of coffee, only to nearly spit it out.

      “What is this?” she asked, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

      Her grandmother smiled. “Gourmet stuff we picked up last night. Double chocolate mocha almond amaretto something or other. What, don’t you like it?”

      Penelope poured the cup’s contents down the drain.

      “Hey, that cost four times what our regular stuff does,” her aunt complained.

      “Yes, well, then you got ripped off.”

      To Penelope, coffee was coffee, straight, no special flavorings or additions or fancy names. Good ole Juan Valdez beans freshly brewed was all she desired and needed.

      Funny that emotionally she went for the complicated stuff.

      She grimaced and put a cup of water in the microwave and nuked it so she could have some green tea instead. Plain. No lemon or honey. Just simple green tea.

      She sat at the table, dipping the bag into the steamy water.

      “Who drinks hot tea in the summer?” her great-aunt asked, putting a plate of muffins on the table.

      “How is it different than drinking hot coffee?” her grandmother wanted to know, sitting down.

      Penelope ignored them as she squeezed the liquid from the bag and put it on the table. She took a long sip. That was more like it.

      Finally, she looked up to find Agatha and Irene staring at her.

      “What?” she asked, and then groaned. “Not that again.”

      “And again and again and again,” her grandmother promised. “Penny, girl, you need to get laid.”

      Her aunt nodded her head several times, barely disturbing her tight gray curls. “Yes, you do.”

      “But how are you going to do that if you keep your thighs glued together?”

      Penelope gasped and quickly raised her hand to ward them off. “Please, don’t. It’s much too early in the morning for me to contemplate talking about sex with my grandmother and great-aunt.”

      “Well, you should have thought about that last night. If you had done what you were supposed to, we wouldn’t have to talk about it at all.”

      Penelope narrowed her eyes. “Hmm. Somehow I doubt that.” She put her cup down on the table. “I get the feeling that you two would want detailed descriptions.”

      “God, girl, why would we want those?”

      Her aunt put a muffin on a napkin and pushed it toward her. “We have sex lives. You don’t.” She waggled a brow. “Now if you should want details …”

      “Oh, God, please. Spare me.”

      “Couldn’t hurt,” her grandmother said. “Maybe it will remind her what she’s missing.”

      “And maybe the images you burn into my brain will scar me for life, and leave me unable to ever have sex again.”

      Both their mouths closed with a snap.

      That was better. Much better.

      Penelope ignored the muffin and enjoyed her tea.

      It was hard to imagine a time when she didn’t have these two feisty, witty women in her life. In fact, very little had changed since she was five and her own mother had taken off for parts unknown with her latest boyfriend, an occasional visit or phone call to let them know she was still alive Penelope’s only contact with the woman who had birthed her.

      Agatha and Irene had raised her, although at times it had been difficult to tell who was the child and who the adults. While there had always been freshly baked and cooked food in the house, so had there been parties and a seemingly never-ending trail of paramours, the reputation of the two sisters in their younger years following them well into the autumn of their lives. More often than not it had been Penelope who had picked up beer bottles from the floor and cigarette butts from the plants after a particularly rowdy night.

      She had hoped that one day they would settle down. That her grandmother and great-aunt would finally mature. But it appeared that might not ever happen.

      “So how was Seattle?” she asked, idly pulling apart the muffin and popping a piece into her mouth.

      The two sisters grinned at each other. And Penelope sat back, readying herself for another example of exactly why neither of them would ever qualify for a spot in a Norman Rockwell painting …

      PALMER STOOD AT THE FRONT DESK at Foss’s B and B and stared at the bell after looking at his watch. The scent of fresh coffee and something baking came from the direction of the kitchen, but seeing as he was the only guest in the seven-room inn, he didn’t feel comfortable just walking around the place as if he owned it. Especially since from the moment he’d checked in, he’d gotten the impression he wasn’t exactly welcome. The second afternoon of his stay, he’d returned to find his suitcase on the front porch, his room locked up.

      “I didn’t realize you were staying for more than one night,” Debra Foss had said when he’d finally tracked her down in the back garden.

      He knew differently. He’d told her when he’d checked in to what basically amounted to the only temporary accommodations in town, that he would be staying indefinitely.

      But he hadn’t bothered to remind her. He could tell by the look on her face that she understood what the score was, and nothing he could say would sway her.

      So he made it a point of stopping by the front desk to reinstate his intention to stay and pay for another night before leaving for the day, lest he return to find his suitcase in a garbage can.

      He rang the bell.

      He wasn’t altogether sure why he’d received the cold shoulder upon his return to his hometown. He certainly hadn’t left on bad terms with anyone. Well, outside of his father, anyway. So why the cold reception?

      Mrs. Foss popped up behind the desk, startling him. She didn’t wish him a good morning or offer him a cup of coffee, she merely accepted his money, showed him where to sign—again—and then disappeared to wherever she’d emerged from.

      Not the best way to start