An irrational surge of jealousy spikes through me at the thought of another woman in Elliot’s bed.
That’s…new.
Sure, I’m attracted as hell to Elliot Bishop. But lusting after someone and feeling territorial are two different things.
I have no claim over this man I barely know. And the only true claim he has over me is due to a piece of paper I was foolish enough to sign before I knew Elliot wouldnotbe pushing me up against a wall and fucking me senseless.
During the drive back to the ranch, one where Elliot spent most of his time on the phone with his ranch manager, I let my imagination run wild with ways I could seduce him over the course of the next three days. But the second he showed me to my room, he disappeared.
I waited for hours, hoping he’d come back to the house. But turns out the grumpy cowboy is a workaholic. Something his personal chef and house cleaner both confirmed.
“He loves his animals,” Julie insisted as I watched her put away Elliot’s laundry—it’s why I was able to pilfer one of his T-shirts to sleep in tonight. Or, more accurately, not sleep since I’m roaming his house in nothing but said T-shirt and a pair of silk red panties at midnight. “He’s very passionate and usually out of the house all day. Comes back to sleep and does it all over again the next day.”
Tonight, Elliot Bishop is nowhere to be found. The man is probably out cold in bed after working a sixteen-hour day on the ranch. That was after driving me from the sex mansion to my apartment to collect my things. I’m not even certain he slept last night.
I consider inviting myself into his bedroom, but I suspect that would backfire. If I want to win, I have to find another angle to play.
Which is why I end up in the kitchen, searching for ingredients to make a batch of my mom’s famous Christmas cookies. Maybe the way to Elliot’s cock inside me is through his stomach. Harry, his personal chef, mentioned Elliot had a bit of a sweet tooth and a fully stocked pantry. Since I happen to know the recipe by heart, I figure it can’t hurt anything to whip up a batch.
Meatloaf meows up at me as I scour the cupboards for all the necessary ingredients—most I find in a pantry the size of my apartment bedroom.
“You already had your dinner,” I insist, setting out my haul on the kitchen island.
He meows again, as though offended.
“And treats.”
The persistent cat weaves through my ankles, swatting my calf with his tail.
“Oh fine, one more treat.”
After Meatloaf is satisfied, he struts off down the hall.
Elliot insisted both Meatloaf and I had free roam of the house. The memory of the too-sexy-for-his-own-good cowboy crouching down to greet my cat in my apartment makes me so fucking wet I can hardly stand it. I thought for sure he’d object to me bringing my cat along. Instead, he made sure Meatloaf had everything he needed before we even arrived—litter box, cat beds, and even a cat tower that sits in the living room where a Christmas tree should be.
If I wasn’t so convinced Elliot Bishop hates me, I’d almost think he…likedme. It’s possible to hate someone and still want to fuck them. But what if…
“No,” I murmur, shaking the thought from my head as I mix the ingredients in the fanciest kitchen mixer I’ve ever had the pleasure of using. “Don’t go there, Kayleigh.”
There is no future with this man.
As far as I’m concerned, there’s no future withanyman.
They all suck.
I made a vow after Adam skipped town with the contents of my bank account that I would never again let a man into my heart. My bed? Sure—I’m a flesh and blood woman with needs after all. But there’s an iron wall forged around my heart that’s staying firmly in place until I’m finished with my doctorate program, my internship, and my residency.
Love, if I ever open up to the idea of it again, is years down the road.
It’s certainly not in this oversized sad palace with the grumpiest, most irritating cowboy I’ve ever met. One that’s old enough to be?—
“Don’t go there, Kayleigh,” I mutter, focusing on the cookie making process.
The age gap doesn’t bother me. Not if it’s just about sex.
But I can just imagine the look on Grandma Lola’s face if I were stupid enough to bring Elliot Bishop home for the holidays. Grandpa Eddie might actually have a heart attack. And I suspect Fox would chase him off with a baseball bat.
There is no future here.
