Riot blows out a breath that sounds a lot likeyeah, you’re screwed.
CHAPTER 2
LAUREL
The guest room is surprisingly clean for a bachelor’s cabin.
At least I can tell he tried.
There’s a quilt folded at the foot of the bed, a pine dresser with nothing on top but a doily and a lamp, and a recently Windexed window that looks out over the side pasture. I can just see the corner of Riot's paddock and the run-in shed silvering in the late afternoon light.
I begin unpacking, starting with my clothes. Panties and bras in the top drawer. T-shirts and tanks in the second, and jeans down below. I hang a couple of flannels, some nice button-downs, and other tops in the closet, arranged by sleeve length and color.
Then I remove all of my travel pouches from my bag. I have four of them, and I line them up across the dresser in the order I've kept them in since I was a teen—pink, blue, green, clear. Which is body, face, hair, emergency…respectively. I move the emergency pouch, which includes pain meds, a sewing kit, my phone charger, and a handful of other things that might be useful into the drawer of the nightstand next to my bed.
I take the rest to the small bathroom that’s right next to my room. Pink goes to the left of the sink. Blue on the right. Greenup on the shelf near the mirror. My best friends, Lark and Lyla, always give me a hard time about it. But it’s a system that works.
A lot of things didn't survive my divorce. The house. A version of myself I'm still hunting for with a flashlight. But the pouches, they survived. I mean, I’m nothing without my organizational skills. You don't throw out systems that have carried you through the worst times of your life.
Suddenly, there’s a clang of metal and a low curse down the hall, where Beck Aldridge is making dinner.
Cast iron clatters on wood, and there’s the rush of water from a faucet. And every few minutes, more soft thumps and hissed curses fly—the bad ankle, probably getting bumped as he moves around.
I go back to my bedroom and study myself in the mirror.
I look exactly like a woman who drove for way too many hours today. My hair is a mess. My tank top has a coffee stain I must’ve missed from when I stopped for a pick-me up at that gas station outside Grand Junction. My eyes are tired and any lipstick I started with has worn off leaving me paler than usual. It doesn’t help my RBF, either.
But it’s fine. I'm not here to win any beauty contests.
So why am I changing my top?
It can’t be for my new boss. The one my brother told me to keep my wits about me when around.
When Maverick described him, he said the guy was as cocky as a two-peckered billy goat. Evenbeforehe went off to Hollywood. And all that time on movie sets only put more fuel on that fire.
He said the man had left a trail of broken hearts from one coast to the other—every set, every location. He knows the women in Hollow Peak still talk about him, too.
I'd asked if I needed to be worried.
He'd said, no…that Beck would never do anything I didn’t want him to.
“I just don't trust whatyou'regonna want after a month with him.”
Which is a hell of a thing to send your sister off with.
Now, being here for about an hour…I see what he means. Mostly.
I still have no idea what he meant about my wants…I have no intention of doing anything here in Hollow Peak besides cashing a paycheck.
But my throat goes a little tight as I swallow that down.
Beckisa lot hotter than I wanted him to be. Older than I pictured. Though I’ve always been more drawn to men with experience out in the world. Who’ve lived a bit. And that gray in his sideburns only enhances that allure.
Stop it. He is not alluring.
He’s charming.
And he flirts the way most people breathe. It’s more like a reflex. He probably flirts with everybody, from grandmothers to cute little babies.
