I swallow irritation and nod.
As he walks away, Kendra mutters under her breath, “He needs a vacation.”
I almost smile. Almost.
But smiling takes too much energy right now.
Finally five o'clock arrives. I shut down the computer. Gather my things. Say the required goodbyes. And step outside into air that feels crisp and, somehow, softer than it did this morning.
I reach my car door.
And hesitate.
I don’t want to go “home.” Not yet. Not alone. Not with the possibility that the memory of last night is waiting to tempt me to have hope to feel like a woman alive again.
I lean against the car, pulling in a shaky breath.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
I jump.
But it’s just a message.
From an unknown number.
My heartbeat quickens in a way that’s not quite fear, not quite adrenaline.
I open it.
Come have dinner, Holley. Six-thirty.
My stomach drops as I recognize the number from the booking. The hope and anticipation twists itself into something messy and unsteady. Because I know exactly who it is and how I shouldn’t smile reading the invitation.
Tony Brocato. My guest for a week. This is a business transaction. Dinner sounds intimate. He’s a stranger not a friend.
The memory of our kiss lingers and my lips protest that he’s a lot of things but to my body, he’s a stranger no more.
And suddenly the cold isn’t the thing sending shivers through me anymore.
Nine
Stud
The cabin was quiet in the way only deep woods could be—no hum of distant roads, no neighbors, no anything except the slow creak of timbers settling and the whisper of wind dragging itself across the eaves. I have been away less than twenty-four hours, but the stillness has already worked its way under my skin, loosening knots I didn’t realize I’d been carrying.
I stretch out on the worn sofa, boots crossed at the ankles on the coffee table, the woodstove clicking softly beside me as it breathes its way through the last split logs I fed it. Warmth pooled into the room; it soaked into my bones. Much better than last night’s chaos. Much better than witnessing Holley—cold, scared, clearly running on fumes—trying to pretend she was fine.
Damn woman. Stronger than she knew and more fragile than she ever let herself appear.
I rub a hand over my jaw, staring through the big picture window at the tree line. Snow flurries began to drift like lazy feathers, the kind that didn’t really accumulate but sure as hell made you want to cook something hearty.
Fucking snow. I’m from Ohio, the white shit isn’t something I’m new to, but it isn’t the best thing to ride a motorcycle in. Especially since I’m in the mountains in a town I don’t actually know my way around. So much for the damn weather predictions.
Can I manage? Sure.
I’m just at an age where I don’t care to. I begin to mentally prepare for a trip to the grocery store. Maybe I’ll make chili for dinner or pork chops. My stomach seems to wake up at the thought of a solid meal.
One thing about me, I am not afraid to cook. In fact, it relaxes me.
