“If you invite me, I could sleep next to you.” Her horrified expression gives me more entertainment than it should, and I can barely contain my chuckle. “But since that’s unlikely, I’ll crash on the sofa. Or bring over one of the cots from the bunkhouse.”
“But this is your house. And that’s your room.”
“And I invited you here.” I sigh, shaking my head. “Rosalie, this is the least I can do after messing up the reservation you made.” I nod toward the staircase that leads to my bedroom. “Now, go get unpacked. It’s not up for debate. You’re taking my bedroom.”
I turn away and march outside to get the rest of her things before she can argue. I know she likes to call the shots, and I don’t have a problem with that most of the time. But if she thinks I’ll allow her to sleep on my sofa, or worse, the floor, she’s completely mistaken my character. Is that really the kind of man she thinks I am? That bruises my ego more than anything.
3
ROSALIE
I busy myselfwith getting unpacked and settled, mostly to avoid another conversation with Jackson. He brings all my bags inside and then heads out to finish his work on the ranch. As soon as his truck kicks up dust on its way down the drive, the web of knots inside my belly untangles.
What the hell am I thinking? Booking a place on the Wilder Ranch poses so many risks. I should’ve just stayed at one of the boutique motels in Ember Ridge, or even at a motel in Show Low. Being a few hours from my son would have sufficed. Now, I’ve put myself in the exact situation I’ve been trying to avoid. I’ve worked so hard to carefully craft a life where no one asks about my past, or more importantly, Edward’s father.
Now, all of that hangs on the word of Jackson Wilder.
It’s bad enough we already share one secret.
As far as I know, he’s made good on his promise to protect it. No one knows we hooked up, and hopefully they never will. I’ll take that memory to my grave.
Visions of his body over mine flit through my mind, as they do whenever I allow myself to revisit that night. My skin prickles withawareness, and arousal stirs in my lower belly. Goddamn. That man played my body better than any man had the right to.
I knew he was experienced. It’s no secret in this town that he gets around. Or that he prefers his women a little older. But I never intended to sleep with my friend’s younger brother.
And when I did, I didn’t expect it to be so damn fun.
Guilt surges forward, attempting to steal the joy from that night. Every time since, whenever I hang out with Maeve or with her sisters-in-law, Val and Sarah, I worry they’ve somehow found out. That if they do, they’re going to cast me out of their inner circle. It’s not the most rational fear, yet it’s there.
My anxiety is even worse when Edward and I are invited to one of their family functions. I avoid Jackson at all costs, because I just know Maeve will catch one look and be able to tell. And if she does, she’ll either expect us to date, or worse, hate me for keeping something so big from her, and our friendship will forever be fractured.
Jackson’s a full-grown man. It’s not as though I took advantage or did anything to lure him in. Quite the opposite; he pursued me. He invited me back to this house. He fucked me like he knew exactly what I needed.
Fuck.
My eyes slam shut. Sometimes, I wish I could forget. Then I would stop wishing for something impossible.
What would my friends think about me hiding out at his house all week?
Ughhh.
I think it would be worse than if they found out about our hook-up. A one-night stand can be written off as a lack of judgment. This situation demands questions. They’d decipher the cracks in my story. They’d be curious, and that would be enough to risk the safety of my future in this town.
My heart aches at the idea of leaving Wilder Valley and starting over somewhere new. I could do it. I did it before. But this time, I’d know the pain of walking away from genuine friendships, from acommunity that cares, and a job I love. I’m not sure I could survive that.
Which is why no one can ever discover that I spent this week shacked up with Jackson Wilder and sleeping in his bed—even if he isn’t in it.
The minutes pass painfully slowlyonce I’m fully unpacked. At noon, I head down to the kitchen and make myself a snack. My original plan was to write, read, and sleep the time away. But I’m too amped up to sit still. It’s five o’clock somewhere, though, and I pour myself a generous glass of wine.
I glance around Jackson’s place, my temporary home for the week.
I have to admit, the décor is impressive. The last time I was here, the walls were bare and the furniture a random assortment of second-hand pieces that didn’t match. He upgraded the space in a significant way.
The floors are light with darker grains and knots, and I can’t tell whether he refinished these or replaced them altogether. The walls are painted in hues of green. The honey leather sofas and chairs are accented with plush dark brown pillows and throw blankets, a haven for relaxing and reading. Everything appears comfortable and inviting.
Unlike most cabins in this town, there are no hunting trophies on the walls. Not one set of antlers in sight. Topping off my glass, I wander around the house to critique his design choices. Only, I can’t. This place fits him. It’s warm, masculine, and the color scheme incorporates the same natural feel from the outdoors without being over the top. Not overly modern or rustic, he’s brought the feel of the mountains into his living space.
Did he do this himself?
