They’re the Only Guests at the Bed and Breakfast During the Storm. He’s a CEO Hiding from the World

The Sanctuary in the Storm

The window rattled so violently that Brooke Mitchell thought the glass might shatter. She realized with a sinking feeling that she had made a terrible mistake driving up the mountain in this weather.

The bed and breakfast loomed ahead through sheets of rain, its Victorian silhouette barely visible against the dark sky. Lightning cracked overhead, illuminating the sprawling structure for one brilliant second before plunging it back into shadow.

Brooke gripped the steering wheel tighter, her knuckles white, as she navigated the final turn up the gravel driveway. Her sedan hydroplaned slightly, and her heart lurched into her throat.

When she finally pulled under the covered entrance, she sat there for a moment breathing hard. She listened to the rain pound against the roof. This was supposed to be a peaceful weekend retreat.

It was a chance to finish editing the manuscript that had been sitting on her laptop for three months. Her publisher had been patient, but even patience had limits. Brooke needed somewhere without distractions.

She needed no roommates asking to borrow things, no coffee shops with chatty baristas, and no excuses. It was just her, a cozy room, and 70,000 words that needed to be whipped into shape.

She grabbed her overnight bag and laptop case, took a deep breath, and ran for the front door. The wind caught her hair immediately, whipping it across her face. Rain soaked through her jacket in seconds.

She practically fell through the entrance, gasping and dripping onto the hardwood floor.

“Oh my goodness, you poor thing.”

An older woman with silver hair pulled into a neat bun hurried toward her, already holding out a towel. She had kind eyes that crinkled at the corners and wore a cardigan that looked hand-knitted.

“I’m Margaret, the owner. You must be Miss Mitchell.”

“We were so worried when we saw the weather turning.”

Brooke accepted the towel gratefully, pressing it to her face.

“Thank you. I probably should have turned back, but I was already halfway here when it got really bad.”

“Well, you’re safe now, and that’s what matters.”

Margaret helped her out of her soaked jacket, hanging it on a rack near an old-fashioned radiator.

“Let me get you some tea. You’re shivering.”

The interior of the bed and breakfast was exactly what Brooke had hoped for. There was warm wood paneling and floral wallpaper that somehow worked.

There was antique furniture that looked genuinely loved rather than just decorative. A fire crackled in the sitting room fireplace. The smell of something baking wafted from what must be the kitchen.

“I have you in the rose room upstairs,” Margaret said, bustling toward the kitchen. “Second door on the right. Why don’t you go up and change into something dry? I’ll bring the tea up in just a moment.”

Brooke nodded, too cold to argue, and grabbed her bags. The wooden staircase creaked pleasantly under her feet. Upstairs, a hallway stretched in both directions, lined with doors.

She found the rose room easily, the name painted in delicate script on a small plaque. Inside, a four-poster bed dominated the space, covered in a quilt that looked handmade.

Lace curtains framed windows that overlooked what was probably a beautiful garden when it wasn’t being destroyed by the storm. She changed quickly into dry jeans and a thick sweater.

She towelled her hair as best she could and was just sitting on the edge of the bed when Margaret knocked softly.

“Come in.”

Margaret entered with a tea tray, complete with a delicate porcelain pot and matching cup.

“Here we are. This should warm you right up.”

She poured the tea with practiced ease.

“I should mention, dear, you have one other guest this weekend. A gentleman checked in about an hour before you arrived. He’s in the blue room at the other end of the hall. Very quiet, keeps to himself.”

“That’s fine,” Brooke said, accepting the cup.

The tea was perfect, hot and fragrant.

“To be honest, I’m here to work. I probably won’t be very social anyway.”

“A writer, aren’t you? That’s what you mentioned when you booked.”

“Editor, actually. But I’m working on my own book right now,” Brooke smiled. “Or trying to, anyway.”

Margaret patted her hand.

“Well, you’ll have plenty of peace and quiet. Dinner is at seven in the dining room. Nothing fancy tonight, just pot roast and vegetables.”

“The storm knocked out the power to the main kitchen equipment, but we have a gas stove, thank heavens.”

After Margaret left, Brooke unpacked her laptop and set it up on the small desk by the window. She tried to focus on the manuscript, but the storm was mesmerizing.

Wind howled around the corners of the building and rain came in waves. Sometimes it was light, sometimes so heavy she couldn’t see the trees at the edge of the property.

Thunder rolled continuously, like the sky was cracking apart piece by piece. By the time seven approached, Brooke’s stomach was growling.

She had managed to edit about ten pages, which wasn’t terrible considering the circumstances. She saved her work, changed into a clean shirt, and headed downstairs.

The dining room was cozy with a table set for six, though only two places had been prepared tonight. Candles flickered in glass holders, necessary because the overhead lights were dim.

Margaret must have been dealing with power issues. A man sat at the far end of the table, and Brooke stopped in the doorway for just a second, taking him in.

He was tall, that much was obvious even though he was seated. Broad shoulders filled out a plain black sweater. Dark hair was slightly messy, like he had been running his hands through it.

A strong jaw was covered in a few days’ worth of stubble. He looked up when she entered, and his eyes were striking, a deep brown that caught the candlelight.

“Hi,” Brooke said, moving to the other prepared seat. “I’m Brooke.”

He stood, and she realized she had been right about the height, easily over six feet. He extended a hand.

“Harrison.”

His grip was firm and warm. His hand dwarfed hers.

“Guess we’re the only brave souls who didn’t check the weather,” Brooke said, sitting down.

“Something like that.”

Harrison sat back down and Brooke noticed he had a glass of red wine. A bottle sat on the table, about a quarter empty.

Margaret said, “The storm’s supposed to last through tomorrow at least, possibly into Sunday.”

“Seriously?” Brooke’s eyes widened. “I’m supposed to leave Sunday morning.”

“You and me both.”

Margaret appeared with a tray, setting down plates of pot roast that smelled incredible. Roasted carrots and potatoes accompanied the meat, and thick gravy covered everything.

“Here we are. There’s plenty more if you want seconds. And Harrison, dear, make sure to share that wine. I left it for both of you.”

Harrison had the grace to look slightly embarrassed.

“Of course.”

“Would you like some?” he asked Brooke.

“Please.”

He poured her a glass and Margaret bustled back to the kitchen. For a few minutes, they ate in comfortable silence.

The food was exactly what Brooke needed after the stressful drive and cold rain. It was hearty and warming.

“So what brings you up here?” Harrison asked eventually. “Besides terrible decision-making about weather.”

Brooke laughed.

“Work, actually. I’m an editor, but I’m trying to finish my own book. I needed somewhere quiet.”

“What kind of book?”

“Fiction. Contemporary romance, if I’m being specific.”

She took a sip of wine. It was good, probably expensive.

“What about you?”

Harrison paused, his fork halfway to his mouth.

“Just needed to get away for a while.”

There was something in his tone that suggested she shouldn’t push, so Brooke didn’t.

“I can understand that. Sometimes you just need to disappear for a bit.”

“Exactly.”

He seemed relieved that she wasn’t going to interrogate him.

“How long have you been writing?”

They fell into easier conversation after that. Brooke told him about her job at a small publishing house in Boston.

She explained how she had been editing other people’s words for five years and finally decided to try creating her own story.

Harrison listened more than he talked, but he asked good questions. He seemed genuinely interested, which was refreshing.

Most people glazed over when she talked about the technical aspects of editing.

“What do you do?” Brooke asked eventually, finishing her second glass of wine.

The alcohol was making her warm and relaxed.

“I work in manufacturing.”

Harrison’s answer was vague.

“Family business. It’s complicated and probably boring.”

“Try me.”

He smiled for the first time and it transformed his face. He went from handsome but serious to devastating.

“We make industrial equipment. Machinery for factories, that sort of thing. Not exactly dinner conversation.”

“Fair enough.”

Brooke decided not to push. If he wanted to be mysterious about his job, that was his business.

Margaret came back to clear their plates and offered dessert: apple pie with vanilla ice cream. They both accepted.

By the time they finished, the wine bottle was empty and Brooke felt pleasantly fuzzy around the edges.

“I should probably get some work done,” she said, standing.

The room tilted slightly.

“Okay, maybe she’d had a bit too much wine.”

Harrison stood as well.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine. Just not used to drinking on a weeknight.”

She steadied herself on the back of the chair.

“I’m good, really.”

He didn’t look convinced.

“Let me at least walk you upstairs.”

“I can manage stairs.”

“Harrison, humor me.”

They climbed the staircase together, Brooke very aware of his presence beside her. He had the kind of solid, grounded energy that made you feel safe.

When they reached her door, she turned to face him.

“Thank you for dinner. Well, for the company during dinner. Margaret made the actual dinner.”

That smile appeared again.

“I knew what you meant. Good night, Brooke.”

“Good night.”

She slipped into her room and leaned against the closed door, listening to his footsteps retreat down the hallway.

Then she shook her head at herself. She was here to work, not to develop a crush on a mysterious stranger just because he had nice eyes and broad shoulders.

Brooke tried to focus on her manuscript, but her concentration was shot. After reading the same paragraph five times without retaining any of it, she gave up.

She got ready for bed. The storm continued to rage outside.

At some point in the night, she woke to the sound of something crashing. Maybe it was a tree branch falling or patio furniture being thrown by the wind.

She burrowed deeper under the heavy quilt and eventually drifted back to sleep.