The stranger arrived late in November, one gloomy afternoon, through a chill wind and a shower of icy rain, the final storm of the season, making her way from Ashwood railway station.
She walked briskly, but her low-cut, fur-trimmed boots and fishnet stockings were ill-suited for the slippery, wet paths leading toward the village. Her attire caught the eye immediately: a tight, cropped leather jacket that barely zipped over her heaving chest, a mini-skirt that swayed with every confident step, and a worn-out duffel bag slung over one shoulder. She had unruly curls tumbling down her back, and her heavily made-up face, though streaked with rain, was striking with bold red lips and sharp, cat-like eyeliner.
She entered "The Wishing Well," a cozy but rundown inn in desperate need of repairs, stumbling slightly as she pushed open the door. A single glance from her dark, heavily mascaraed eyes was enough to silence the conversation at the bar. She slammed some bills on the counter and tossed her duffel bag onto a nearby chair with a careless grunt.
"Bloody hell, a fire," she demanded, her voice husky but sensual, "and a damn room, if you've got one. I'm not paying to freeze my tits off here."
The barman, Gregory Hall, a stout man in his mid-fifties with a grizzled beard and a twinkle of desire hidden beneath his bushy eyebrows, wiped his hands on his apron as he watched her shake off the rain. He couldn't help but admire the way her wet clothes clung to every curve of her body, the unapologetic way she carried herself. His eyes lingered a little too long on the dip of her waist, the sway of her hips.
"Right away, miss," Gregory said, his deep voice crackling with interest as he led her toward the fireplace in the corner. "Warm yourself up while I sort out a room. You... look like you've had quite the journey." He leaned in slightly as he spoke, the smell of tobacco clinging to his shirt.
She smirked, her lips curling into a playful grin. "You could say that. Had to come out of the city. Too many bloody eyes watching."
Gregory raised an eyebrow, but wisely chose not to ask any further questions. He wasn't one to pry. Instead, he threw a few more logs onto the fire, making it roar to life. The flames cast a soft glow over her damp skin, which now glistened under the light, making her appearance seem even more irresistible. The heat caused her cheeks to flush, and as she stood close to the fire, she began to peel off her jacket, revealing a dangerously low-cut tank top underneath, which barely contained her ample chest.
Gregory cleared his throat, tugging nervously at his collar, trying and failing not to stare. "I'll, uh... I'll have Martha set up a meal for you. She's the maid here."
The stranger didn't even glance at him, instead stretching her arms languidly in front of the flames. "Fine. Make it quick. And get that room ready."
Gregory nodded hastily and left her to fetch the maid, his thoughts still swirling around the provocative figure by the fire. He found Martha in the kitchen, a girl no older than twenty-one, her thin, wiry frame bustling clumsily as she tried to juggle several tasks at once. Martha had dull, mousy hair pulled back into a tight bun, her complexion pale from spending too much time indoors, and a small, crooked nose that she often wrinkled in irritation.
"Martha!" Gregory barked, startling the girl, who nearly dropped the tray she was preparing. "Get a meal together for the guest, will ya? And tidy up a room while you're at it."
Martha scowled, casting a sideways glance toward the open door where the stranger was visible. "Another one?" she muttered under her breath. "What's she doing 'ere in that mess of clothes? Might as well be wearin' nothin'."
Gregory ignored her grumbling, though he couldn't help but notice the way Martha's eyes narrowed in disdain, tinged with jealousy as she watched the stranger's voluptuous figure through the kitchen doorway. There was no hiding the envy etched into her face as her gaze trailed over the woman's long legs and perfectly proportioned curves. Martha had always been a little self-conscious about her lackluster appearance, especially in the presence of women who looked like... her.
"You heard me, Martha. Stop daydreamin' and get to work," Gregory grunted, feeling a slight twinge of guilt. "The lady's payin' good money for a warm stay. No need to be jealous."
"I ain't jealous," Martha snapped, her cheeks flushing. She turned back to the stove, muttering to herself, but her eyes kept flicking back to the guest. "Just think it's a bit... improper, that's all. Walkin' about like she's on display."
As Martha busied herself with preparing a simple stew and a glass of wine, Gregory returned to the guest, his hands clasped behind him as he tried to appear professional. He wiped his brow and made his voice steady. "Your room's just about ready, miss. Might take a minute for Martha to get it all straight, but you'll be well taken care of here at The Wishing Well."
The stranger finally turned to face him fully, giving him a slow, once-over. Her gaze was sharp and appraising. "Gregory, right?"
"That's right," Gregory said, his heart thudding a little faster than usual. She had an intimidating beauty about her, the kind that made men like him feel exposed, as if every hidden desire was laid bare.
Her smile was wicked. "You keep staring at me like that, Gregory, and I might start charging you for the view."
Gregory chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. "No disrespect, miss. Just not often we get someone like... you 'round here. A city girl, by the looks of it."
"Damn right," she replied, her voice dripping with confidence. "And trust me, I'm worth a lot more than you can afford."
Gregory swallowed hard. "I don't doubt that." He looked down at his hands, realizing they were shaking slightly. "I'll, uh... I'll go check on that room for you."
As he walked away, Martha caught him by the arm in the kitchen, her eyes narrowing. "That one's trouble, I can feel it."
Gregory sighed, glancing at the stranger one last time and then the money on the counter. "Maybe so. But trouble pays."