MEREDITH
No.
No.
I glare at the black Escalade blocking part of the driveway.
He’s staying here? Can’t he get a room?
The motel, primarily used by hunters, always has openings, as long as it’s not deer-hunting season—bow or rifle—mule deer or pronghorn season, goose or duck-hunting season, pheasant or turkey season, and the main fishing tournaments at the dam on the opposite end of town haven’t begun yet.
Can’t a heartless guy like Calder Cross sleep in a cave during the day?
A faint light glows from the living room. He’d better not have taken my room. I have the room upstairs that used to be his. It’s bigger than the others, and closer to the bathroom. He probably has opinions about a grown woman in her thirties living at home, but I’m all out of fucks.
I park in the garage, my heart wrenching when I pass Ransom’s Chevy pickup as I enter the stall, stopping next to Holly’s white Equinox. I gather my lunch bag and my purse before stumbling into the mudroom at the back of the kitchen, where I look up, right into a pair of glittering dark eyes.
Calder’s sitting in Ransom’s usual spot at the head of the table, two laptops open in front of him. The way he’s leaning on the table, with the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up, is sheer temptation. His top two buttons are undone, and his shirt gapes open to reveal the muscle at the base of his throat.
Hussy.
Even worse, his hair is tousled as if he’s run a hand through it several times, and the stubble along his jaw is darker than it was this afternoon.
“It’s 2 a.m.,” I say.Why is he still awake?
A dark brow cocks up. “Is there a curfew now?”
Smart-ass.
A yawn forces its way through my jaw, and the damn thing quivers as I struggle to stifle it. My sleep has been crap, and I have an early meeting at the funeral home tomorrow. My stomach growls. I still need to eat.
“Which bedroom are you taking?”
He swallows, and his Adam’s apple bobs. Apparently, there’s nothing about this man my eyes won’t track. “The spare room by Dad’s.”
It wasn’t just his dad’s room, but I won’t argue the point.
“There’s only a futon in there.”
“I’ve slept on worse.”
It’s my turn to cock a brow. “Sure, slick.”
“Did you forget how I grew up?”
“Didyou?”
He reclines, his gaze once again raking down my body to my running shoes. Tingles spread across my skin, and my fatigue makes it difficult to ignore the faint thrum between my thighs.
Not this man. I cannotbe attracted to him.
“Do you think you’ll get the house?” he asks, his tone infuriatingly calm.
Any rogue desire is effectively doused. “I’m not getting into it tonight.” I drop my purse down at the base of the stairs behind the pantry and take my lunch bag to the sink.
He watches me as I walk past him.
I open the fridge to grab a calzone, only to find an empty shelf. My gut wants to weep.
