They moved around each other carefully, like polite strangers, hanging clothes in the antique armoire and placing toiletries in the marble filled bathroom. Dinner was served in the inn’s elegant dining room, where other couples talked under their breath intimately over candlelit tables while Margaret and Harold sat in front of each other and made small talk about the weather and the wine.
But something shifted as the evening went on. Maybe it was the second bottle of wine, or the way the candlelight softened the mood around Harold’s eyes, or simply being away from the same routine of their daily lives. They found themselves actually talking—not about weather or personal responsibilities, but about how they’d like never got chance to travel to different places they wanted to go.
“Remember our honeymoon?” Margaret asked as they walked back to their room, Harold’s arm around her neck and her arm around his waist for the first time in months.
“The cabin in the mountains,” Harold smiled. “We barely left the bed for three days.”
“We were a young bull,” Margaret laughed, then looked at him more seriously.
“But….we are not dead yet, are we?”
Harold stopped walking and turned to face her. “No,” he said quietly. “We’re definitely not dead.”
What happened next was something that hadn’t occurred naturally between them in years. The rekindling of passion that had been buried under years of routine and responsibility. They were like teenagers again, fumbling with their clothes and laughing at their own eagerness.
And then the laughter stopped.
Twenty-two years of marriage hadn’t dimmed their desire—it had just been waiting for the right moment to resurface.
They were enthusiastic in their getting back together, perhaps more enthusiastic than the antique bed was designed to withstand.
The next morning, they woke wrapped in each other’s arms, feeling more connected than they had in years. They packed quickly, both slightly embarrassed by late night passion and couldn’t wait to get home to continue what they’d started.
“Let’s not wait another five years to do this again,” Margaret whispered as they loaded their car.
Harold kissed her forehead. “How about we make it a monthly tradition but not this place?” Uh o
They drove away from Willowbrook Inn with secret smiles and plans for their next romantic getaway, completely unaware of what they’d left behind.
An hour after their departure, Rosa, the head housekeeper, knocked on the door of the Rosewood Suite with her cleaning supplies. She’d been working at the inn for fifteen years and had seen everything—or so she thought.