Ash tried to blink the light away, but it was relentless. So he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and somehow climbed to his feet so he could gethis bearings. The first thing he saw was a window and, beyond that, a field that led to a chicken coop. He spun slowly, recognizing the building that led to the fenced-in field: his oldest brother Eli’s veterinary clinic. As he continued his slow rotation, he stopped short at what he knew now was the guesthouse kitchen that should have been empty. Instead he found a woman standing on the other side of the breakfast bar, facing him. She wore a flour-coated apron, hair in a wild bun atop her head, and…was that a goose egg on her forehead?
“Could you put on some pants and cover that thing?” she asked, blowing a loose brunette lock out of her eyes.
Ash glanced down to his boxer briefs where he was sporting some significant morning wood. He was in the middle of formulating a witty yet sexy comeback when the voice and the hair and every one of his five senses flooded with recognition despite the years since he’d last seen her.
“Willow Morgan.” Her name was a declaration rather than a question. He grabbed a throw pillow from the couch and used it as a shield to hide his erection. “Did we…? I mean… What are you…?”
She cracked an egg with one hand, let the contents fall into a bowl in front of her on the counter, and then dropped the shell into what he hoped was a garbage can beside her. Then she groaned.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Murphy. The only thingthatwedid last night was concuss each other. Only difference between my injury and yours, though, is thatyoudeserved it.”
Ash’s vision cleared even as the pounding in his head raged on. He found his jeans crumpled in a ball on one end of the couch and took his time climbing back into them, though not bothering with the zipper or button.
He brushed the tips of his fingers over his right temple and winced as he felt the bandage and the tender lump beneath it.
“What the hell did you hit me with?” he asked. “Andwhy? Also, what are you doing in my brother’s guesthouse?”
Willow’s jaw tensed. Despite the bump, Ash was pretty sure he saw a vein pulse beneath the skin on her forehead.
“A vase,” she began, holding up a thumb. “Because you broke intomybedroom.” She added her index finger. “For the next couple of months or so, depending on what’s next after the festival, Ilivehere.” She nodded her head back toward the front door. “Thanks to your little destructive entry last night, you now owe your brother and Bethtwovases.”
“Shit,” Ash mumbled through gritted teeth. Then his fingers wandered toward his head wound again. “Did you knock me out and then patch me up?”
Willow crossed her arms—her bare, lean armsthat bore the muscles of a musician who always had a guitar strapped to her back. “Had to make sure I didn’t kill you once I saw who myintruderwas.”
The corner of Ash’s mouth twitched. “You disappointed that vase wasn’t heavier?”
She narrowed her dark-brown eyes, then picked up a red spatula and pointed it at him. “Do you really want me to answer that?”
He strode toward the breakfast bar and the woman who, for all intents and purposes, had tried to kill him the night before. She couldn’t have been more than five foot three, but what she lacked in stature, she made up for in attitude and the voice he knew came from deep in her soul. He’d known it the first second he ever heard her sing all those years ago.
“Are you really gonna hate me forever?” he asked.
She went back to whatever her concoction was, furiously stirring with her spatula.
“I don’t know,” she remarked without sparing him another glance. “I’ll let you know at forever o’clock.” She cleared her throat. “Obviously, you can’t stay here, but I can call my brother. I’m sure they can get you a room at the guest ranch.”
Ash scoffed. “I came here to lay low. I can’t stay in a big, public tourist trap like that.”
She rolled her eyes but still hadn’t bothered to meet his gaze again. “Someone’s gotten a little big for his britches, hasn’t he?” But after a few morevigorous stirs of what looked like some sort of thick batter in the bowl, she finally looked up and sighed. “I guess your presence would be a pain in the ass over there.”
He slapped his hands against the counter, then winced as his head responded with an extra throb. “I guess it’s settled then.”
“What’s settled?” Willow asked.
Ash shrugged. “You’regoing to stay at the ranch instead while I hole up inmyfamily’s guesthouse.”
She stopped midstir and finally looked at him again, which—from this close—made something jolt deep in his gut, even if her look was more of a glare.
God, he wished he could remember the details of the night before. He wished he could remember a lot of nights that he didn’t, but he was also grateful for others that would remain a mystery.
She opened her mouth, most likely to breathe fire and scorch him right where he stood, but he was offered a limited reprieve thanks to a frenzied knock on the door followed by another voice he knew all too well.
“Ashton Murphy, open this door and show me proof of life, or so help me, god, I am going to murder you where you stand.”
He offered Willow a shrug. “Sorry, Morgan. Looks like you’ll have to get in line.”
He strolled to the door, still shirtless with hisunzipped jeans resting on his hips, and threw it open to find Sloane Edwards, his manager and publicist, in a fitted checkered pantsuit, crisp white blouse, stilettos that probably made it near impossible to walk from her rental to the door, and her blond, chin-length bob styled perfectly. Not a hair out of place, including the blunt bangs that hung just below her brows. Yet somehow Ash knew—as he always did—that she was at her wits’ end.
