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But now it was 3.15 a.m. She was hideously alert thanks to the jet lag. And she didn’t have a thing to do, or a to-do list to start arranging to do it with, for the first time in, well, forever. Which meant she had rather more time than she wanted to consider all the cons of her situation.
She lay in the bed, breathing in the scent of air freshener and lavender polish, listening to the clip-clip-clip of the ceiling fan above her head, and struggled to focus on the pros instead. And not picture the man lying in the bed above her. And the odd and completely arbitrary notion that he might be sleeping in the raw, the way he always used to.
Do not go there. For that way lies more unwanted hormone bumps.
She scanned the pseudo rustic antique furnishings, the sturdy maple-wood dresser, the gleaming oil lamp on top that looked like a forgotten prop from Little House on the Prairie, and realised that apart from the potential hazards of sharing a cabin with Luke, it felt good, liberating even, to have the luxury of lying in bed. With not a thing to do.
She really should have thought of taking a week for herself sooner.
Clearly, she had been in serious need of a de-stress. A bit of genuine me time.
With the forest outside still dark, though, she decided she needed something more tangible than no to-do list appreciation to make the most of her first morning of me time.
She padded to the kitchen and took a moment to appreciate the polished surfaces and top-of-the-range appliances and the glorious view of the forest, the dawn light just beginning to set the leaves on fire.
The glass-fronted cabinets were stocked with staples as well as some local delicacies, assuming that’s what a funnel cake was. But before she could read the ingredients, she shoved the package mix back onto the shelf and slammed the door.
She needed a break from the kitchen, and best not cook anything while Luke was in residence, or she might be tempted to poison him. She headed off in search of caffeine.
It took twenty minutes to figure out the coffee machine, which had enough bells and whistles and unexplained buttons to quite possibly perform brain surgery as well as make an espresso. One watery cup of lukewarm coffee later, she returned to her bedroom delighted to see the dawn angling through the line of fir trees that sloped away down the mountainside.
A heavy fog rolled over the cabin’s wraparound porch, swirling around the rocking chairs outside and then gradually dispersing as the morning light arrowed through the dense foliage in picturesque shards that reminded her of the eerie setting in a vintage horror movie. She became absorbed in the beauty of the view through the bedroom’s glass double doors. And took a moment to absorb the novelty again of having nothing to do. And nowhere to go.
Snuggling back under the intricate patchwork quilt—another of Ma Ingalls’s heirlooms, no doubt—she began reading one of the novels she’d downloaded onto her iPad months before and never found the time to read.
It was a good book, just the sort she enjoyed reading in her downtime, downtime that had been virtually absent in far too long. Frivolous and pulpy and romantic, with a fabulously sassy female lead. But then the fabulously sassy female lead met some hot guy in a bar in chapter two, took him home to her apartment and started getting fabulously pornographic with him on her kitchen counter.
Crossing her legs under the quilt, Halle squeezed her melting thigh muscles and flung down the iPad.
Nope, still not going there.
Putting on a sweater over her PJs, she stepped onto the wraparound porch, breathed in the scent of tree resin and musty earth, and congratulated herself on keeping any more of those unwanted hormonal bumps at bay.
Then she spotted a hot tub, lurking at the bottom of the screened porch, steam rising in wisps from under the heavy plastic covering. And a picture of Luke stark naked and fully aroused blasted into her unprotected jet-lagged brain without warning.
Figment-of-her-imagination Luke sat on the edge of the hot tub. His chest muscles glistening as if he’d been oiled like a Chippendale, droplets of water sparkling in the dawn light as they ran down his rock-hewn abdomen, begging her to lick them off. Worst of all, his penis stood thick and magnificently erect, the circumcised head flushed with blood and shiny with the sheen of pre-cum.
Heat blossomed in her sex and her clitoris ached, slick and swollen between her thighs. She swung round and charged back to her room.
Time for action. Tangible action. Right now.
This delusion had nothing to do with Luke, and everything to do with her sadly neglected libido. A blind date with Bugs was all she needed. Clearly, being in Luke’s company for more than twenty-four hours, after six months without an orgasm, had been stressful enough to give her pornographic delusions of epic proportions.
Stop thinking in penis euphemisms. It’s not helping.
She rushed over to her suitcase, then stumbled to a halt as she recalled the one item—the one single solitary item on the bloody to-do list from hell that had gotten lost in her scramble to finish the Kane Corp redesign, have a quiet chat with Trey about Lizzie and get a home-cooked meal down her children on Thursday evening.
Seriously? You forgot to pack Bugs!
‘So, folks, it’s great to meet y’all. How are y?
?all enjoying our little resort so far?’ Jackson Monroe beamed bonhomie from across the ornate walnut desk.
He was older and rounder in person, Halle decided, than he’d seemed on Graham Norton’s sofa a couple of months ago. Bushy eyebrows and the wisps of hair peeking out of his nose and ears, plus the leathery skin, put him in his mid-sixties at Halle’s best estimate. But his grey eyes, despite the grandfatherly smile, were sharp and shrewd.
‘The cabin’s great, thanks, Mr Monroe. The view’s astonishing,’ Luke replied, the buttering-up routine, which he’d begun two minutes ago when they’d been introduced to Monroe in the reception area, still in full flow.
‘Call me Jake, Luke.’ Monroe laughed heartily. ‘We’re all friends here.’ His eyes literally twinkled. Halle wondered if he had special eye drops. ‘But I do love your proper English manners,’ he added, putting on a torturously pompous approximation of a British accent.
