The word I would use is dangerous. The kind of dangerous that comes wrapped in broad shoulders and calloused hands. The kind that looks at you like you're both a problem and a prize. Everett Cole made me feel like I was standing too close to a fire, and I hate him for it.
"I'll find a hotel in the next town," I say.
"Forty-five minutes each way. On mountain roads. In the dark." Patty clicks her tongue. "That's not practical, and you strike me as a practical woman."
She's right. I hate that she's right.
"The records I need are at his cabin anyway," I hear myself say. "The older files."
Patty's smile widens. "Perfect. I'll let him know to expect you."
She's out the door before I can argue. I stare at the space where she stood, then at the basket of food, then at the filing cabinet full of meticulously kept records.
What the hell just happened?
Everett's cabinsits at the end of a dirt road, half a mile from the main operation. The trees close in as I drive, Douglas firs tall enough to block the fading sunlight. My headlights catch the reflective markers someone nailed to the trunks, guiding the way.
The cabin itself is bigger than I expected. Two stories, a wide porch, smoke curling from the chimney. It looks like something from a magazine. The kind of place people pay thousands to rent for a weekend of "rustic living."
I park next to his truck and sit for a moment, gripping the steering wheel. My suitcase is in the back. My laptop. My carefully organized case files. Everything I need to do my job professionally and thoroughly and then get the hell out of this town.
His mother set me up. I know that. But she's also right. I called six hotels on my drive out here. All booked. The Mountain Bloom Festival has turned Whisper Vale into a madhouse, and I'm stuck in the middle of it with nowhere to sleep except the guest room of a man who thinks I'm here to destroy his livelihood.
The porch light flicks on. He's watching.
I grab my bag and walk toward the cabin like I own the place. Fake it till you make it. The story of my life.
Everett opens the door before I knock. He's changed out of his work clothes into jeans and a thermal that stretches acrosshis chest in a way I refuse to notice. His hair is damp. He showered. I can smell soap and something woodsy underneath.
"My mother called," he says.
"I gathered."
"She doesn't take no for an answer."
"I noticed."
He steps aside, gesturing me in. The cabin is warm, a fire crackling in a stone hearth. The furniture is solid wood, clearly handmade. Bookshelves line one wall, crammed with paperbacks and old forestry manuals. A kitchen opens to the living room. It smells like coffee.
"Guest room's upstairs. Second door on the left." He moves toward the kitchen, pulling a mug from the cabinet. "You eat dinner?"
"Your mother brought sandwiches."
"That's not dinner."
"I'm fine."
He turns, leaning against the counter. Crossing his arms. Looking at me like I'm the most frustrating thing he's encountered today, which is saying something given his job involves heavy machinery.
"Ms. Cafferty. You're staying in my house. The least I can do is feed you."
"I don't need you to take care of me."
"I'm aware. You've made that clear." He gestures to the stool at the kitchen island. "Sit."
"That's not?—"
"The records you need are in the basement. I can show you after we eat, or I can let you wander around in the dark looking for the door. Your call."
