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“I don’t want anything. I was worried about you last night. I wasn’t about to ditch you in your . . . state.”
She frowned. “I was drunk, not dying.”
“You sounded desperate.”
Her cheeks heated. Fuck. What had she told him? As he shifted on the bed, the sun peeking through the curtain lit his face, and he was more handsome than she’d anticipated, with strong bones and a lightly stubbled jaw. His dark gaze was . . . intent, and made her stomach do backflips. With looks like his, he could have played the hot bad guy in a Hollywood superhero movie.
She straightened her shoulders. “Who are you? How did you end up in my car?” At least she remembered that much.
“We . . . met after you left the party. I didn’t know where you lived and you couldn’t tell me. So I figured the safest place was to come here. I had to make sure you were okay.”
She searched his face for a lie but he seemed earnest. No traces of conning, or ulterior motives. Weird. Not sure what else to do, she shuffled in place, then said, “Well . . . Thank you. I’ll pay for the room on my way out.”
“It’s already paid for. Are you sure you don’t want a ride?” His brow creased. “You must have a killer hangover.”
Bristling, she answered, “I’m fine.”
He started to climb out of bed. She spun around to face the wall in case he wasn’t decent. “Um . . .” She floundered. “Just . . . can you get dressed in the bathroom, please?”
His chuckle made her shiver. “Relax, little girl. I kept my pants on.”
“Oh.” Feeling silly, she turned back around slowly, keeping her gaze on the floor. “So, thanks again.”
“Come on. I’ll drive you home.” A second later he was close, too close. But at least his shirt was on now and covering the hard muscles on his chest and abs. And the trails of tattoos all over. So fucking hot. Since when did she have such a thing for tattoos?
Maybe it was the tattoos coupled with the Mohawk and the danger he projected. And the fact they were alone. He had “wrong type” written all over him, which, for some reason, woke her libido like nothing ever had. Or maybe this was all part of the hangover.
She cleared her throat. “No, thank you. I’m not going home.”
Last night, in her dreams, a vivid memory had replayed. She’d been sitting in her dad’s lap as a young child as they looked through one of his old photo albums. He pointed out pictures of mountains and rivers and valleys—a beautiful, wild place. He told her about how he’d worked as a bellhop at one of the great lodges in Glacier National Park. That was what had started his career path. He’d begun as a low-level employee, but by the time he’d died, he’d owned more than a dozen high class hotels in some of the best tourist locations. Even one in Glacier National Park.
In her dream, she’d gone to visit the park. It was only a few days’ drive. Maybe what she needed to clear her thoughts and review her priorities was a road trip.
“If you’re not going home, where are you going?”
They were so close she could feel his breath whisper across her forehead. He dwarfed her with his size, making her feel tiny, but still . . . safe. So weird. Men usually made her feel uneasy.
“To the mountains,” she blurted. Why was she telling him the truth?
His face twisted in confusion. “What?”
Hell, he’d already seen her at her worst. Looking a little crazy now was no big deal.
“Glacier National Park. It’s my dad’s favorite place.” Her gaze dropped to the floor as sorrow struck. “I mean, it was.” She gave her head a shake. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I appreciate you making sure I didn’t die. Now, where are my car keys?”
“I put them in your purse.”
Feeling suddenly claustrophobic, she took a few steps away and went to her purse. She shuffled through it until she felt them at the bottom.
“What are your plans for this trip? Do you know how to get there? Are you going alone?”
Keys in hand, she looked up at him. What was this guy’s deal? Why was he so fucking nosy?
He crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at her. Was this an interrogation?
“I . . . I don’t exactly have a plan. Yet.” Her gaze faltered. Was this a ridiculous idea? Probably. But she just couldn’t stomach going home. The sympathetic looks from the staff, the calls from her nagging mother, her friends who kept telling her it was time to move on . . . But worse than that was being surrounded by memories. The smell of her father’s cigars lingering in the sitting room. His favorite lounge chair in the library, now empty. The last note he’d left her, still sitting on his office desk. Such a random message—just to have a good day. He’d never been big on little gestures like that. Maybe, deep down, he’d known something was wrong. She’d never know for sure.
Her throat felt thick but she managed to hold back tears. He’d left her everything. His business, his fortune, his house . . . everything. What the fuck did she know about running things alone? Why had he left it all to her? Didn’t he understand the kind of pressure it put her under? If she screwed things up she wouldn’t just lose the company and everything her father had built, but she’d also be responsible for all the employees losing their jobs.
