Page 17 of Slow Burn

When we reach the top, Beck pulls a single gold key out of his pocket and hands it to me, nodding in the direction of the door. I open it, and am surprised at what I see inside.

It’s obvious the place hasn’t been used in years, there’s a mild musty smell in the air. But otherwise, the space is quaint, complete with a small kitchenette, a little living room, and a queen sized bed in one corner. It’s homey, with white shiplap on the walls and up the vaulted ceiling, and mismatched farmhouse style furniture that all seems to work together.

“You can stay here,” Beck says, clearing his throat and still refusing to look me in the eye. “It’ll be more convenient anyway, while you’re working here.”

Well, that answers one of my questions. A small seed of satisfaction begins to sprout within me, along with something else. Hope.

This is one obstacle down. Getting Beck to agree to work with me gets me one step closer to proving myself, and going back to my life in the city.

“Thanks,” I say, as Beck gives me his back and makes to leave.

He only grunts in acknowledgement, and then he’s gone. His heavy footsteps retreat down the steps until there’s no trace of him except for his warm, spicy scent he left behind.

I take a moment to look around the cabin, and take my suitcase over to the bed to unpack it. There’s no stain on this bed. In fact, the sheets have a crisp, clean smell to them, as if someone recently changed them.

Once my clothes are hanging in the wardrobe, I wander over to the small kitchen. A wooden, traditional-style pedestal table sits in the centre, and on top is a bottle of white wine. I turn the bottle over in my hand and read the label. It’s French, but I recognize it immediately.

It’s the same wine I was drinking before Beck picked me up, my favourite one with notes of peaches. Next to it, a scrap of paper with a phone number on it, and a note.

Text if you need anything.

More questions flood my mind. Namely, how did Beck know what wine to get me, and why did he go to the effort to get this place ready for me? I take the wine and a glass that was set out next to it over to the couch.

I pour myself the glass I never had a chance to finish, and contemplate this turn of events while I take the first long pull and swish the liquid around in my mouth. Beck Hollis is now not only my older brother’s cranky friend, he’s also my boss. I’m not just here to crash at Wild Sage, I have to figure out how to work with him. I swallow, and release a long exhale, letting my eyelids flutter shut.

Whatever is going on with Beck aside, I feel safe here. Even with the door unlocked, my fear of being some sicko’s next victim has vanished. Somehow, knowing he’s across the yard in the main house is enough to put my mind at ease.

I don’t know why Beck has been such a grump since I got here.

But I do know that this is one hell of an olive branch.

Chapter 8

Beck

I’m up at dawn today, as usual, and in the kitchen to start my day before my dad is up. I’m glad he can sleep in, rest his aching bones and have a slow start to his mornings. For all the stress I’ve endured in taking over the daily operations on the ranch, it’s well worth it for him to have some peace.

The house is quiet, the smell of coffee filling the kitchen. This side of the house is shaded. The morning sun starting its ascent in the east, but it casts the mountains out west in a breathtaking wash of pinks and purples. The last remnants of snow capping the rocky, grey mountains is practically glowing.

I pour my coffee into a mug, tendrils of steam curling up around my face as I take the first sip. My bleary eyes begin to clear as soon as the liquid hits my lips. I didn’t get enough sleep last night. I rarely do anymore, but last night in particular was rough.

With Lyla across the yard in the guest house I’ve been restless, like there’s this steady awareness of her presence here. Having her stay on the property is a constant reminder of the feelings I’ve been trying to shove to the far recesses of my mind.

If I have to pretend that having Lyla here doesn’t affect me so she has somewhere safe to stay, I’ll do it. The thought of her staying in that seedy motel was too much.

But now, as I look out over the rolling foothills, the yard extending from the back of the house, I’m regretting my decision, because there’s Lyla, out on the grass, disrupting my morning doing whatever it is she’s doing in whatever it is she’s wearing.

Her pants look like they’re painted onto her body, exposing every curve of her hips as she places her hands on the rubber mat she’d laid out and lifts her butt in the air. And goddamn it, the fabric bunches between her legs, gathering and accentuating the outline of her⁠—

Fuuuuuck me.

I open the sliding door and storm out onto the deck, taking my coffee with me because I do not have enough caffeine in my system to deal with this shit.

The sound must catch her attention, because she rises in one swift motion, a movement that would take a lot more core strength than I have. I try not to think about her abs as she turns around to face me, but there they are, not hard and rigid, just soft with a gentle line running down each side. And because my brain feels like torturing me today, I wonder how it would feel to trace that line with my mouth.

“Do you have to do… that out here?” I ask.

She places a hand on the curve of her hip, shielding her eyes with the other. “Don’t like my downward dog, Bossman?”