Free London Falling by Emma Carr Page A

set of stairs, the puppy racing past her on this wider set of stairs. She’d been hoping to pass by Mr. High-and-Mighty’s room unnoticed, but the puppy made such a racket, she decided to check on him.
    After she dropped the towels out of sight, she tapped her knuckles on the door. She didn’t need him chastising her for cleaning against his wishes, especially since she’d told him that she’d already finished cleaning.
    “Have you got a sensor that sounds an alarm every time I move?” His voice was muffled through the door, but she could make out every word.
    She decided to take that as an invitation. “I see why everyone admires the excellent manners of you Brits,” she said.
    Simon was standing next to the bed, bent over at the waist and tugging on the sheets. His pajama bottoms sat low on his waist, revealing a strong lower back that hinted at a highly toned backside. He definitely got his money’s worth from the weight room upstairs.
    “Decided to do a little housecleaning and remake the bed to your high standards?” she asked.
    He turned to glare at her. His forehead glistened with sweat, and the edges of his hair looked damp. “My fever broke and the sheets are wet.”
    And he was changing the sheets himself. She almost forgot she hated him. She shooed him from the bed, pushing him toward the chair she had vacated earlier.
    “No, let me do it,” he said, stepping around her.
    Warmth emanated from his body. Images of late mornings and breakfast in bed flitted through her consciousness. She was suddenly aware that she was alone in the house with him. She stepped away from the fire. “You don’t have to be so embarrassed. Everyone’s wet the bed before. Of course, I haven’t since I was about two, but some people are just late bloomers.” He ignored her. While she circled the bed and pulled the bottom sheet off the corner, he did the same for the other side. She tried to ignore how domestic this seemed, but then had to tamp down her frustration when he tossed the sheets in a pile in the corner. She was two seconds away from nagging like a wife.
    He rummaged in the armoire for a few seconds. “What did you do with the clean sheets?”
    “Cut them up into tiny strips and made macramé plant hangers out of them.” He quirked his eyebrow. She was starting to notice a few of his habits, including the ever popular eyebrow quirk. It was effective, though. “I washed them. They’re downstairs in the laundry room.”
    He walked toward the door, as if he were going to get them himself, but then he would see the towels piled on the floor in the hall and know that she had been cleaning while he slept.
    She raced to the door, beating him by a millisecond. “I’ll get them. I need to let the dog out anyway, so it will just be easier. Besides, you don’t know where the laundry room is.”
    He shook his head. “After I change my clothes, we can discuss our options for your departure sometime in the next century.”
    “Great. I can’t wait.” She slipped out the door, and picked up the towels, only to realize she should bring down the dirty sheets as well. She dropped the towels just as she heard the shower turn on. He must really be feeling better, darn it. She knocked on the door and called out a warning. “I’m coming in.”
    Nothing in response.
    She opened the door a crack. “I forgot the sheets. I’m coming in.”
    Still nothing in response.
    The bathroom door was closed, so she raced in, picked up the sheets, and raced back out. Her heart beat a faster rhythm, but she didn’t know whether it was because she was disappointed or relieved that she hadn’t caught him naked. Or maybe both.
    Once again, she picked up the towels and the sheets and headed downstairs, careful to feel her way down since she couldn’t see over the pile of linens in front of her face. The man had too many stairs in his house. What she wouldn’t give for a one-floor ranch right now.
    “Who are you?” a cultured, feminine