The blinking cursor in my document brings me back to the task at hand. But the desire to write has been chased away by the ghosts of my past.
This is what you’re writing?
You should be writing a real book. One with substance. One that matters.
Rosalie, you’re better than this.
The crushing words of my then professor ring in my ears and eat away at my confidence. They don’t hold the same weight they once did, but my self-doubt comes crashing back into my mind, and my own self-criticisms are enough to make me close out of the document.
Writing might have been a possibility at one point in my life, but I have to be realistic. I’m a mother now, a single parent, and I have a full-time job. Those are my priorities. There’s no time to pursue this dream. When this week is over, I have to go back to my real life, and focus all my energy on what really matters—Edward. I can’t afford anything or anyone that distracts from protecting him and giving him the best life I can.
16
JACKSON
All dayI sneak breaks to read the new book Rosalie “assigned” to me after we decided to recreate a scene from one of her novels. It’s a western, and the dude runs a ranch—though I don’t see how. This fucker barely works, and the real kicker—he and his brothers run a secret high-end after-hours sex club on site. I snort, imagining such a thing. In a real small town like ours, this would never happen. First of all, there’s no such thing as secrets—not where groups of people are involved—and secondly, the moral uproar would put these guys out of business faster than you can say leather and whips.
People still talk about the year our clerk mistakenly approved a business license for a topless gentleman’s club, and that was over ten years ago. The tale goes, Herb Simmons skimmed the application, saw the business name of Peaches and Cream, and assumed he was approving a new town eatery. There was so much outrage over the scandal that our town convinced the developer it wasn’t worth the headache.
But none of that matters, because I’m not interested in visiting a sex club with Rosalie. My only goal is to recreate one. Which means I need to be extra sneaky.
Keeping my head down, I wait for Ryan to excuse the crew at the end of the day. Usually, I’m one of the first to bail come quitting time, but today I linger behind until Ryan is ready to head out. We walk out to our vehicles together and say goodbye, but when he drives off, I’m sitting in my truck pretending to fuck around on my phone. As soon as Ryan’s truck disappears around the corner, I start mine and back up to the barn.
I open one of the doors and toss hay bales into the bed of my truck, praying my brother or any of the other crew doesn’t come back to the barn and take notice. Back in my cab, I call ahead to pick up an order from the diner. We’re going to need sustenance after all I have planned, and the last thing I want to do after fucking is cook a meal—unless that leads to more sex?I should ask Rosalie if she has any books with a hot chef.
All the errands add up though, and by the time I arrive at the cabin, I’m setting up for tonight’s rendezvous later than I intend.
The workshop behind my house is too small for a garage, so I use it for storage. With a little elbow grease, it’ll become tonight’s barn sex club from Rosalie’s book. I down the cobwebs that have appeared since the last time someone stepped foot back here, then use a leaf blower to blast the dust away. I work quickly, and despite the late afternoon breeze, my skin beads with sweat. The sky is thick with clouds and I wonder if we’ll get another afternoon shower.
I unload the hay bales and lay out clean blankets I snagged from the tack room. Finally, I poke around until I find a set of lights—ones I use to decorate for Christmas—and drape them around the barn to take the ambiance of this space from interrogation room to romantic moodiness.
As I appraise my work, I’m filled with a sense of pride. It’s not a professional job, but given the time constraints and limitations, I’m happy with the transformation. I hope it impresses Rosalie too. The idea of fucking her right here within the next few hours sends a thrill down my spine.
What the fuck am I doing wasting another minute? I need to get my ass inside and find my woman.
When I step inside the cabin, Rosalie is reading near the fireplace, a glass of wine balanced in one hand and a book in the other. Her gaze lifts at my presence, and the tender smile she offers does something funny to my insides. I like coming home to her in my space.
For a perpetual bachelor, I like it more than I should.
“Sorry I’m late.” I hold up the bag from the diner. “I brought dinner if you’re hungry.”
“I’m starving”—her grin is devious—“But not for that.”
“Oh?” I lift my brows as anticipation pumps through my veins. “Anything I can help you with?”
“I sure hope so.” She rolls her eyes. “You made some pretty big promises last night.”
“Yeah.” I set the food on the counter, then walk toward Rosalie. “But I want to hear you say it.”
“You want me to beg?” She closes her book with a snap and sets it next to her now-empty wine glass. “Because I’m not doing that.” Her chin lifts, and there’s a set of defiance in her jaw.
I love that she’s not a pushover. I love her fire. Her feistiness.
“You think I couldn’t get you to beg for my cock?” I saunter closer.
Her lips pinch together, as if she’s annoyed. She doesn’t answer, though, and I think we both know I could, even if she won’t admit it.
I laugh, not bothering to hide my amusement.
