“Try it,” he said pleasantly. “See what happens. I’llhave you off your feet and back in your cabin before you can blink.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” I purred back, batting my eyelashes.
The flat look he gave me was worse than a scold. I stared up at him, wondering if he’d really make good on his promise. He glared back, his mouth clamped shut but his face saying a whole lot.
I decided he would, and not in a fun way.
“Fine,” I huffed.
Immediately, he stepped back, giving me space, and I wished he hadn’t. It was freezing out here, and proximity to his big body had been like standing close to a fire. But that high horse wasn’t going to ride itself, so I pranced over to the car like I could still feel my thighs.
He said nothing as I beeped the key fob, the sound cutting through the stillness like an air horn. He said nothing as I grabbed the charger and a pack of Skittles from the console and stomped past him back to the cabin. He said nothing as he followed me up the steps to the porch.
The second I crossed the threshold, I whipped around to face him. He leaned against the doorway, watching as I shrugged out of his coat and tossed it to him. “Thank you for the favor I never asked you for.”
He said nothing to that, too. Just touched the brim of his cowboy hat and nodded before disappearing into the ponderosa pines.
Leaving me to wonder how saying nothing at all said so much.
By the timeI had pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, the sky was a brilliant pinky-orange, and I was ravenous. My phone claimed it was 5:37, but my stomach insisted it was nearly eight. I had always been a morning person and thrived on routine, starting every day with a Pilates class before breakfast, and right now my body could not be less interested in sleep. It wanted movement and food.
And maybe an overly protective cowboy for extra warmth.
Benny had gone from paying for my time to paying me to stay away, and I wasn’t under any illusions that we would pick up where we left off when I returned to the city. Maybe he’d actually be in jail, although I doubted it—people with money didn’t tend to end up there—and I really hoped not. Either way, he wouldn’t care what I got up to. Would it be so bad to get over a millionaire by getting under a cowboy? A vacation fling was like Skittles and Diet Coke. It wasn’t healthy, and it couldn’t replace chicken and vegetables in the long term, but sometimes it was exactly what you needed. A little treat.
My stomach growled. The lodge didn’t open for breakfast until eight, but maybe I could grab a piece of fruit from the kitchen or something to tide me over. I needed to park my car there, anyway. If the lodge was locked, I’d head into town—but that was a forty-minute drive, and my stomach might eat itself in the meantime.
I pulled on my ancient hoodie and headed out. It hadn’t occurred to me that I’d need a coat or warm clothes in June, and my packing consisted of shorts, T-shirts, every pair of underwear I owned, and the occasional dress for nights in town. Everything else I’d packed up into a rental storage unit.
The lodge was a quick four-minute drive from my cabin. I parked in the gravel lot behind the lodge designated for overnight guests and staff. The door was unlocked, so I slipped past the sign at the welcome desk with posted hours and headed for the dining hall. The overhead lights were off, but the big windows provided plenty of morning sun to guide me, and I could hear pots banging and low chatter coming from the back, so I knew someone was around.
A quick peek through the small, square window of the swinging door told me I had found the kitchen. I could make out gleaming metal tables, a tall man with a long dark braid at the griddle, and a girl with lavender hair pulled into a bun standing with her back to the door, a large silver bowl tucked against her side, herwhole body vibrating as she stirred its contents vigorously.
I pushed through as she said, “So then he saidI’m coming to the cottage. Can you believe that? Amos, the way I screamed—” She turned as she spoke, saw me standing there, let out a startled yelp, and nearly threw the bowl at me. A glob of batter shot out of the bowl and landed with a plop at my feet.
“Um, hi.” My hand arced like a rainbow in an awkward wave.
The girl looked me up and down with wide brown eyes. “Well, shit,” she laughed. “You’re gorgeous.”
My body tensed. Did she recognize me? Or was that nothing more than a compliment? I cleared my throat. “Hi,” I said again. “And, um, thanks. I was wondering if?—”
“You’re a guest.” The man at the griddle pointed his spatula at me. “You can’t be back here. Breakfast is at eight.”
He was my height, wearing a black AC/DC shirt with cutoff sleeves that showed his muscled biceps and weathered brown skin, although there wasn’t a single thread of silver in his long black braid.
“Right,” I said, my tone conciliatory. “But I was hoping I could maybe get a banana or something? Would that be okay?” I gave him a pleading smile, the one that never failed to make men puff out their chests and be my hero.
But Amos did not appear inclined to rescue me. He folded his thick arms over his round stomach and stared me down as if he had never heard the phrasethe customer is always rightin his life. “Breakfast is at eight.”
The girl rolled her eyes. “Don’t listen to him. Of course you can have a banana. We have plenty.”
She set the bowl down on one of the silver prep stations and spun on her toes to the back counter, which was piled with apples, bananas, oranges, and uncut melons. She plucked a banana from one of the bunches and ripped off a paper towel that she dampened at the sink.
“Here you go.” She handed me the banana and then squatted in front of me to wipe up the spilled batter.
“Thank you. And sorry for startling you.” I cracked the banana’s top and peeled it back. “I’m Lennon,” I added.
“I’m Cecily Shepherd. And that grump over there”—she indicated Amos with a jerk of her purple bun—“is Amos Tallbull.”
