They’re the Only Guests at the Bed and Breakfast During the Storm. He’s a CEO Hiding from the World
The Flooded Bridge and the CEO’s Choice
Morning brought no relief from the weather. If anything, the storm had intensified.
When Brooke went downstairs for breakfast, she found Margaret in the kitchen looking worried.
“The bridge,” Margaret said without preamble. “The main bridge back to town. It’s flooded. The sheriff’s department called. No one can get in or out until the water goes down.”
“How long will that take?”
“Depends on when the rain stops. Could be a day, could be three.”
Margaret wrung her hands.
“I’m so sorry, dear. I know you both have places to be.”
“It’s not your fault. Acts of nature and all that.”
Brooke tried to sound more cheerful than she felt. Her publisher was going to kill her.
“At least I have my laptop. I can work.”
Harrison appeared in the doorway already dressed in jeans and a gray Henley that clung to his chest in a way that should be illegal.
His hair was damp, like he had just showered.
“You heard about the bridge?” Margaret asked him.
“Just got the alert on my phone.”
He held up the device.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine. These things usually resolve quickly.”
But it didn’t resolve quickly. By lunchtime, the news was reporting that several bridges in the area were underwater.
The storm had stalled over the mountains, just sitting there and dumping rain.
Brooke’s phone buzzed with increasingly frantic texts from her publisher, then her roommate, then her mother. Her mother had somehow heard about the storm and was convinced Brooke was going to die.
“I’m fine,” Brooke typed back for the fifth time. “Just stuck. Safe. Dry. Stop worrying.”
She was in the sitting room trying to work on her laptop, but the internet kept cutting in and out.
Harrison sat in an armchair across from her, his own laptop open, frowning at the screen.
“Everything okay?” Brooke asked.
He glanced up, and for a second she saw real stress in his eyes. Then he smoothed it away.
“Just work problems. Nothing I can do about it from here anyway.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not particularly.”
Then, as if realizing how that sounded, he softened.
“But thank you.”
Margaret brought them lunch on trays: sandwiches and soup. It was simple but good.
“I’m going to be honest with you both,” she said, setting down the trays. “I live in town. I usually go home in the evenings, but with the bridge out, I’m stuck here.”
“The guest rooms are all made up for the week, so I’ll take the small room off the kitchen. I just wanted you to know.”
“Of course,” Brooke said. “We’re all in this together.”
After Margaret left, Harrison closed his laptop and moved to sit on the couch beside Brooke, keeping a respectful distance.
“So looks like we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other for the next few days.”
“Could be worse. You could be terrible company.”
“How do you know I’m not?”
“You haven’t tried to tell me about cryptocurrency or your podcast yet, so you’re already doing better than most guys.”
He laughed, a real laugh that made his whole face light up.
“Fair standard to set.”
They spent the afternoon together, both trying to work but frequently getting distracted by conversation.
Brooke learned that Harrison was from Connecticut, that he liked hiking and terrible action movies, and that he had never been married.
He learned that she was the youngest of three sisters, that she was terrified of spiders, and that she had once accidentally dyed her hair green in college and had to keep it that way for a month.
“I need to see pictures of this,” Harrison said.
“Absolutely not. Those photos have been destroyed.”
“I bet your mom has copies.”
“Don’t you dare contact my mother.”
The easy banter surprised Brooke. She hadn’t expected to feel so comfortable with someone she had just met.
Usually, she needed time to warm up to people, but Harrison made it effortless. Maybe it was the forced proximity or maybe it was just him.
Dinner that night was chicken casserole, and Margaret opened another bottle of wine. This time, Brooke paced herself better.
The three of them ate together, Margaret telling stories about the bed and breakfast’s history.
It had been in her family for three generations and she clearly loved the place despite the constant maintenance headaches.
“You get a lot of guests?” Harrison asked.
“Depends on the season. Summer’s busy and fall when the leaves change. Winter can be quiet.”
“Spring’s unpredictable because of weather like this,” Margaret smiled. “But I wouldn’t trade it for anything. I love meeting people from all over, hearing their stories.”
After dinner, Brooke and Harrison ended up in the sitting room again. The fire was going, and rain continued to drum against the windows.
Without discussing it, they had fallen into a pattern of gravitating toward each other’s company.
“Tell me about your book,” Harrison said, settling into the couch. “What’s it about?”
“Are you really interested, or are you just being polite?”
“I’m really interested.”
So Brooke told him. She explained the plot about a woman who inherits her grandmother’s bookstore and the man who wants to buy the building.
She told him how they clash at first but slowly fall in love as they work together to save the store.
She talked about the themes she was trying to explore: community, change, and finding where you belong.
“It sounds wonderful,” Harrison said when she finished. “When can I read it?”
“When it’s done. If it ever gets done.”
“You’ll finish it. You strike me as someone who finishes what she starts.”
“What makes you say that?”
He studied her, and the intensity of his gaze made her breath catch.
“You drove up a mountain in a storm because you’d committed to this weekend. You’re still here trying to work when most people would just give up and watch TV. You’re determined. I can see it.”
Brooke felt heat rise to her cheeks.
“You barely know me.”
“Maybe. But I’m good at reading people.”
“Is that part of your mysterious manufacturing job?”
He smiled.
“Something like that.”
They stayed up late talking about everything and nothing: movies they loved, places they wanted to travel, childhood memories.
Harrison told her about growing up in a big house that always felt empty because his parents worked constantly.
Brooke told him about family dinners that were chaos with three daughters all trying to talk over each other.
When Brooke finally went up to bed, it was past midnight. She lay in the dark listening to the storm and realized she hadn’t thought about her manuscript in hours.
All she could think about was the way Harrison’s eyes crinkled when he smiled, the deep rumble of his laugh, and how safe she felt when he was around.
This was dangerous. She was stuck here with a man she barely knew, developing feelings that would go nowhere once they left this place.
He would go back to his life, whatever that was, and she would go back to hers. This was just a moment out of time, nothing more.
But when she fell asleep, she dreamed about him anyway.
The next day brought a slight break in the rain. It didn’t stop completely, but it lightened to a steady drizzle instead of a deluge.
Margaret reported that the bridge was still underwater, though the forecast suggested the storm might finally move on by tomorrow.
Brooke woke early and actually managed to get some writing done. She was in a groove, words flowing, when a knock on her door interrupted.
“Come in,” she called, saving her work.
Harrison opened the door and Brooke’s stomach did a little flip.
He wore jeans and a blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up, showing strong forearms. His hair was slightly damp again, curling a bit at the ends.
“Margaret’s making pancakes. Thought you might want to come down.”
“Pancakes sound perfect.”
They ate breakfast together. Then, because the rain had lightened, Harrison suggested they explore the grounds.
“I’m going stir crazy inside,” he admitted. “Even with good company.”
Brooke grabbed her jacket and they ventured outside. The wind had died down, but everything was soaked. Puddles dotted the lawn and branches littered the paths.
They walked around the property, Harrison pointing out damaged areas. A gutter had come loose on one side of the house. Several trees had lost major limbs.
“Margaret’s going to have a lot of cleanup,” Brooke observed.
“We should help before we leave.”
“That’s sweet of you.”
He shrugged.
“It’s the right thing to do.”
They found a small gazebo at the edge of the garden, miraculously still intact. Inside, a bench wrapped around the interior.
They sat down, looking out at the gray landscape.
“Can I ask you something?” Brooke said after a while.
“Sure.”
“Why are you really here? You said you needed to get away, but it feels like there’s more to it.”
Harrison was quiet for so long that Brooke thought he might not answer. Then he sighed, running a hand through his hair.
“I’m the CEO of my family’s company, Youngst Manufacturing. You probably haven’t heard of it, but we’re pretty big in the industrial sector.”
Brooke tried to keep her expression neutral, though inside she was reeling. CEO. That explained the expensive wine and the way he carried himself with quiet authority.
“We’re going through a major merger,” Harrison continued. “It’s been in the works for two years. The board wants it, the shareholders want it, everyone wants it except me.”
“Why not?”
“Because it means laying off 300 people. Good people who have been with the company for decades. People with families, mortgages, kids in college.”
His jaw tightened.
“The board says it’s necessary for growth, that we’ll hire new people eventually. But I know how these things work. Those 300 jobs won’t come back.”
“So what did you do?”
“I told the board I needed time to think about it. That I wasn’t signing anything until I was sure it was the right decision. They gave me until next week.”
He looked at Brooke.
“I came here to figure out what to do. And then the storm hit. And now I can’t even get cell service to check in with my assistant.”
Brooke reached over and took his hand. It was a bold move, but it felt natural.
“That’s a lot of weight to carry.”
“My father built that company from nothing. He’d know what to do. But he’s been gone for five years and I’m just trying not to destroy everything he created.”
“You don’t strike me as someone who destroys things.”
“How do you know?”
She squeezed his hand.
“Because you’re worried about 300 people you could easily just think of as numbers on a spreadsheet. Because you care enough to lose sleep over this decision.”
“Because you’re here trying to do the right thing instead of just the easy thing.”
Harrison turned his hand over, lacing his fingers through hers. The gesture was intimate and Brooke’s heart started hammering.
“You’re pretty wise for an editor.”
“I read a lot. It rubs off.”
They sat there, hands linked, watching the drizzle. The moment felt significant, like they’d crossed some invisible line.
This wasn’t just two strangers passing time anymore. This was something real.
“I’m glad I met you,” Harrison said quietly. “Even if it took a natural disaster.”
“Me too.”
They walked back to the house slowly, still holding hands. Margaret was in the kitchen when they came in and her eyes immediately went to their joined hands.
She smiled but didn’t comment. The rest of the day passed in a comfortable haze. They worked side by side in the sitting room, occasionally reading bits to each other.
Brooke shared a paragraph she’d just written and Harrison gave her honest feedback. He showed her an email he was drafting to his board, trying to find a compromised solution.
She helped him reword sections to be clearer. At one point Margaret brought tea and cookies, took one look at them sitting close together on the couch and spoke.
“You two look cozy.”
“Margaret,” Harrison said, but he was smiling.
“I’m just saying, sometimes good things come from bad situations.”
She winked and left them alone.
“She’s not subtle,” Brooke said.
“Not even a little bit.”
Harrison set his laptop aside and turned to face her fully.
“But she’s not wrong either.”
“About what?”
“About this being something good.”
He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering.
“I know we just met. I know this situation is temporary, but I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Brooke’s breath caught.
“Harrison.”
“You can tell me to back off if I’m reading this wrong. If you’re not feeling what I’m feeling, just say so. I’ll respect that.”
“You’re not reading it wrong.”
Her voice came out barely above a whisper.
“I feel it too.”
He leaned in slowly, giving her time to pull away. When his lips met hers, it was gentle at first, questioning.
Then Brooke’s hand came up to cup his jaw and the kiss deepened. His stubble was rough against her palm.
He tasted like the tea they’d been drinking, sweet and warm. When they finally pulled apart, both breathing hard, Harrison rested his forehead against hers.
“I’ve wanted to do that since dinner the first night.”
“What took you so long?”
He laughed and kissed her again. This time it was longer, more confident. His hands slid into her hair, cradling the back of her head.
Brooke felt like she was melting, all her nerve endings on fire. She’d been kissed before, but never like this. Never with this intensity, this sense of rightness.
They spent the evening curled up together on the couch, kissing and talking and kissing some more.
Margaret called them for dinner and they ate quickly, both eager to get back to the privacy of the sitting room.
By the time they finally said good night, Brooke was dizzy with happiness.
“Sleep well,” Harrison murmured, kissing her one more time at her bedroom door.
“Not likely,” Brooke said. “I’ll be thinking about you.”
“Good. I’ll be thinking about you too.”
She floated into her room and collapsed on the bed, touching her lips and smiling like an idiot.
This was crazy. This was reckless. This was the best thing that had happened to her in years.
