Now, with rain beating on the tin roof and Izzy’s truck keys still burning in his pocket, Grant heard Sam’s words all over again.
And did what he always did.
He picked the work.
21
Grant’s House
The house was breathing. Old timbers groaned under the weight of the deluge, walls vibrating with every crack of thunder from the ridge.
Izzy sat cross-legged on the guest bed with the sketchbook propped against her knees. She was staring at a charcoal study of the ridgeline, but her mind was stuck in the tack room—stuck in the smell of rain and the hunger of Grant’s hands, in the way the world had tilted before he walked away.
The front door opened. Heavy boots hit the floor with a slow, methodical rhythm.
She heard the shower kick on in the master suite down the hall, and for ten minutes, she listened to the muffled spray until the pipes finally went silent.
She heard him move into the hallway. Through her open door, she saw him pass—a blurred silhouette of damp skin and low-slung gray sweatpants. He didn’t stop. He didn’t turn his head. He walked straight into his room—and left the door standing wide open.
It lay there between them in the hall: a silent, agonizing dare.
Izzy sat there for a long minute before she finally stood.
She walked down the hall, her bare feet silent on the hardwood. She stopped in the doorway, the air in the room already heavy with him—the scent of soap and cedar and a heat that radiated off his skin like a physical warning.
Grant was sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to her, his head dropped between his shoulders. The muscles of his back were a map of tension, glistening in the dim light.
“Grant.”
Her voice was soft, but it cut right through the sound of the falling rain. He didn’t move.
“I didn’t mean for that to happen at the barn,” she started, her heart hammering against her breast. “And I know you don’t want this. I get it. This is complicated. I live in Denver and we both have lives that don’t fit together, but I don’t want this to be awkward for the rest of the week. I’m going to go to a hotel tomorrow. It’ll just make everything easier for?—“
Grant moved so fast the sentence died in her throat.
He was off the bed in two strides, his hand shooting out to catch her waist and haul her forward until she hit the solid heat of him. Before she could even breathe, he swung her up, her feet leaving the floor as he crashed back onto the bed with her on top of him. Ashocked, helpless sound tore out of her.
He rolled them instantly, reversing their positions. He pinned her.
His hands tangled deep in her hair to force her head back. He was all bone and corded muscle, a solid, unyielding weight that finally anchored her after days of drifting. When he moved against her, she felt every ounce of restraint he’d been fighting to hold onto.
“You really shouldn’t have come in here,” he rasped. His voice was a raw vibration against her lips. “I’ve held back asmuch as I can, Izzy. I’ve fought it every damn second since you stepped out of that car.”
He kissed her then. It wasn’t a question; it was a collision.
His mouth was hungry, erasing every logical reason she’d just tried to give him. His hands—those rough, scarred rancher’s hands—were everywhere at once. They weren’t gentle. They were possessive, sliding up under her silk camisole, his calloused fingers dragged over the slope of her ribs. The rough friction of his palms snagged against the delicate silk, making her gasp into his mouth, a sound of pure, helpless surrender.
“You aren’t going to a hotel,” he growled into the hollow of her throat. His teeth grazed her neck, making her back arch off the mattress. “You aren’t going anywhere.”
He hooked his fingers into the strap of the camisole, the low-grade hum of his frustration finally snapping as he peeled the fabric down and away. Izzy shivered as the cool air hit her skin, but then his mouth followed—hot, damp, and unhurried. He kissed his way down the line of her throat to the swell of her breast. He pulled her in deep against his tongue, his jaw rough with a day’s worth of stubble that scraped against her skin until she was writhing under him.
Izzy’s hands fisted into his damp hair, her head tipping back into the pillow as a heavy, dragging ache bloomed low in her belly.
Grant, please,” she whispered, not even knowing what she was asking for, just knowing the space between them was suddenly unbearable.
He didn’t answer with words. He rose over her, the sheer, unyielding press of him stealing her breath as he settled between her thighs, his rough knees parting hers. The contrast was devastating—his heat against her chill, his raw, massive strength pinning her to the mattress until the old bedframe groaned beneath them.
He reached down, his knuckles brushing the bare skin of her hip as he slid the silk shorts down her legs, his gaze tracking the movement in the shadows. When he looked back up at her, his eyes were completely dark, devoid of any of the cautious distance he’d maintained all week.
