Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
She grimaces. “His brilliant ideas are how I ended up in debt.”
“Then we’ll make sure his next one doesn’t involve this driveway,” I explain casually.
The we slips out before I can stop it.
She hears it. I can tell by the way her eyes soften, then sharpen again, wary. “You’re only here a week,” she says quietly. “You don’t have to get involved.”
“Lady,” I begin, straightening off the door, “I was involved the second he rolled up and you looked like you wanted to crawl out of your own skin.”
Her shoulders tense again, that little flash of shame creeping back. “I’m sorry. This is not, this is not the experience I want for you. I promise. I clean. I prepare. I make sure everything’s perfect.”
She gestures around the cabin with a helpless little sweep of her hand.
“And then my walking disaster of an ex shows up and ruins it,” she finishes.
I look around properly now for the first time.
The place is immaculate. Couch just so, blanket draped, welcome basket on the table, little handwritten note propped up by the cocoa packets. Cozy lamp in the corner, soft yellow light warming the wood. It looks like a picture out of some rental brochure.
She’s done all this.
For me. For her guests she shares her home.
And now she’s apologizing like she personally invited the asshole who just tried to shake her down.
“Cabin’s great,” I say. “Exactly what I need. As for your ex,” I shrug. “Every town’s got its share of losers. I’ve seen worse.”
“Still,” she says, licking her lips. She immediately looks like she regrets the motion, probably remembering exactly what those lips were doing thirty seconds ago. “If you want to cancel, I’ll—”
“Not happening,” I interrupt.
Her brows shoot up. “You don’t even know my cancellation policy.”
“I know I just rode four hours of what should have been three into the cold on a bike because my daughter thinks I need to get out of town before I choke a man in my own shop,” I share openly. “I know this place is paid for. I know the bed looks decent and there’s a roof that doesn’t leak. And I know you just stood your ground against a man who’s been bleeding you dry for years.”
I hold her gaze.
“I’m staying.”
Something in her posture loosens. Just a fraction. Like a wire that’s been pulled too tight, finally given an inch.
“Okay,” she says softly. “Okay.”
Outside, through the thick wood of the door, I can just barely hear the sedan’s engine turn over. Gravel crunches. Headlights sweep past the front window for a brief second, then fade as the car backs awkwardly down the drive.
He’s leaving.
Good.
Holley hears it too. Her head tilts, listening. When the sounds fade completely, she exhales a long, shaky breath and presses the heels of her hands into her eyes.
“I’m so tired of him,” she says quietly. “So tired of all of this.”
I don’t say I understand. I don’t say I get it.
But I do.
More than she knows.
“You ever think about changing your locks?” I ask.
She snorts softly. “He doesn’t have a key or code. He just… knows where I live. And how to make dramatic entrances.”
“Drama’s not a crime,” I share. “Trespassing and harassment is.”
She gives me a look. “You a lawyer now?”
I let out a rumble that might be a laugh. “Not even close. Just a man who’s dealt with his fair share of trouble.”
“That I believe,” she says, scanning my leather, my scars. “You don’t look like you sell insurance.”
“I’d get bored as hell if I did,” I share with a laugh. Instantly, everything lightens between us. She relaxes and I take in her beauty. From her eyes that are mixed flakes of color almost making her eyes so blue they are gray and her blonde hair in a messy bun, to the curves of her body underneath her fitted t-shirt and jeans. She fills it out nicely.
For a moment, we just stand there in the entry, two strangers who just shared a pretty intimate moment in front of a third party who had no right to be there.
“This your first time up in these mountains?” she asks, slipping into host mode like a survival tactic.
“First time in this cabin,” I state the obvious on that. “Been through the area on the bike before. Usually passing through, not stopping.”
“Well, there’s a binder with all the important info on the table,” she says, nodding toward it. “Wi-Fi password, heating instructions, where the extra blankets are. Local restaurants, hiking trails. That kind of thing.”
I glance at the binder. “I’ll take a look.”
“If you need anything, message me through the app,” she adds quickly. “I usually respond fast. I, um,” She gestures vaguely toward the driveway. “I was actually on my way out. I wasn’t supposed to be here when you got here. I just forgot something.”