Chapter 22 #2
I move like a woman possessed, fueled by adrenaline and shame.
I zip the bag and throw it over my shoulder. I whistle for Wellsy. He comes running, tail wagging, oblivious to the storm raging inside me.
I turn to leave the room, and collide with a solid wall of muscle.
I look up. Rhett.
He catches my arms, steadying me. His eyes scan my face, taking in the rain-soaked hair, the flushed cheeks, the wild eyes. He glances down at my muddy boots, then back up to my face.
“What happened?” he asks. His tone is even, but there’s an edge of worry beneath it.
“Nothing,” I say, pulling away from his grip. “I’m leaving.”
“Leaving?” He frowns. “Saramaria, it’s pouring. The roads are—”
“I’m going to Pearl’s,” I interrupt him. My voice sounds high and thin. “I’m going to stay there tonight.”
Rhett studies me. He looks at the bag slung over my shoulder. He looks at the way I can’t quite meet his gaze. He knows. He has to know. He’s an Alpha. He can probably smell the sex on me. He can probably smell Boone on me, even through the rain.
But he doesn’t call me on it. He doesn’t ask why I look like I just ran a marathon. He doesn’t ask where Boone is.
He just nods. A slow dip of his chin.
“Okay,” he says. “If that’s what you need.”
“It is,” I say.
“Drive safe,” he says. “The truck has good tires, but don’t take chances on the creek crossings.”
“I won’t,” I whisper.
I side-step him, rushing toward the door. I expect him to stop me. I expect him to demand an explanation. Part of me wants him to. Part of me wants him to grab my arm and tell me I can’t run away from my feelings.
But he doesn’t. He lets me go.
I push out the front door into the gray afternoon. I haul myself into the rental truck, tossing my bag into the passenger seat. Wellsy jumps in after me, shaking water all over the upholstery.
I don’t care.
I start the engine. I put the truck in reverse. I look at the house one last time. I can see Rhett standing in the window, watching me. He’s a silhouette against the warm light of the living room.
I back out of the driveway, turn onto the main road, and don’t look back.
The drive to Pearl’s feels like an out-of-body experience. The windshield wipers slap back and forth, a rhythmic thwack-thwack that hypnotizes me. I drive on autopilot, my mind replaying the last hour in high definition.
The way Boone looked at me. The heat of his hand on my belt. The taste of him on my tongue. The absolute ruin of my composure when his fingers were inside me.
I press my foot harder on the gas.
When I finally pull into the driveway of Pearl’s small cottage, the rain has slowed to a mist. The house is a storybook cottage, painted a soft yellow with white trim. The windows glow with warm, golden light, spilling out onto the wet driveway.
It looks like a sanctuary.
I kill the engine and sit there for a moment, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. I take a breath. Then another. I try to compose myself. I try to wipe the wildness from my face.
I grab Wellsy and my bag and walk to the door.
Pearl opens it before I even knock. She’s wearing a kaftan covered in sequins and a turban wrapped around her hair. She looks like a glamorous fortune teller who has taken up residence in the country.
“Saramaria!” she exclaims, pulling me inside. “Dot said she saw headlights. Look at you, you’re soaked!”
Dot is sitting in an armchair near the fireplace, a pair of reading glasses perched on her nose. She lowers her book, a pair of binoculars resting on the table beside her.
“Roads are getting bad,” Dot says by way of greeting. “But you made it.”
“I... I needed to get out,” I say. My voice cracks.
Pearl takes my bag and sets it down. She looks at me, her eyes narrowing. She takes in the mud, the mussed hair, the frantic energy radiating off me.
“Trouble at the ranch?” she asks gently.
“Something like that.”
“Well, you’re here now,” Pearl announces. She turns to Dot. “Dot, get her a towel. And pour her some wine. The red one.”
Dot stands up, moving with a fluid grace. She walks over to the sideboard and pours a glass of deep red liquid. She brings it to me, her hand brushing mine.
“Drink,” Dot says.
I reach for the glass and take a long swallow. The wine is rich and earthy, coating my throat.
Pearl bustles around the room, lighting more lamps, straightening pillows. “We’ll put you in the guest house. It’s detached, so you can have some privacy. And Wellsy can run around.”
“Thank you,” I say.
I watch them move around the room. It’s fascinating, really, the way they orbit each other.
Dot goes to the kitchen and comes back with a plate of cheese and crackers. She sets it down next to Pearl. Pearl looks up at her, and for a second, the mask of the eccentric hostess slips.
There’s a look of such adoration on Pearl’s face. A softness that transforms her. Dot reaches out, tucking a stray strand of Pearl’s hair back into her turban. Her hand lingers on Pearl’s cheek.
They don’t say anything. They don’t need to. The connection between them is palpable, a living, breathing thing that fills the room. It’s in the way Dot anticipates Pearl’s need for a coaster before the glass even hits the table. It’s in the way Pearl leans into Dot’s touch as she passes.
They’re a unit. A partnership. A love story.
It hits me then, hard and fast. This is what I saw with Willa and her pack. This is what I felt, briefly, in the storm with Boone and Knox and Rhett.
Community. Belonging.
I look away, staring into the fire.
“Tell us what’s wrong,” Dot says, sitting back down in her chair. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I take another drink of wine. The alcohol hits my empty stomach, warming me from the inside out.
“It’s the ranch,” I say. It’s easier to talk about the business. It’s easier to talk about numbers than feelings. “I got a notice from the County. Anthony missed inspections. There are fines. Massive ones.”
I tell them about the eighteen thousand dollars. I tell them about the threat of condemnation. I tell them about the two-week deadline.
I conveniently skip the part about the meeting in the living room where the men offered to go into debt for me. I skip the part about the loan. And I definitely skip the part about the rain-soaked tree and the man who brought me to my knees with his mouth.
“The nerve of the County,” Pearl huffs. “Anthony’s body was barely cold before they started circling.”
“It’s not the County’s fault,” I say. “He missed the deadlines. He let it slide.”
“He was sick,” Dot says pragmatically. “It happens. But that’s a significant sum. Can you cover it?”
“I can,” I say. “I have assets. I can liquidate some things. It’s just... frustrating. Another mess he left behind.”
“Well, you’re not in it alone,” Pearl says, patting my knee. “You have resources. And you have us.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Now,” Pearl stands up, “let’s get you settled. The guest house has a great heater. And there are fresh towels.”
She leads me out the back door, across a small flagstone path that connects the main house to a charming stone cottage. It’s small, just one room with a little bathroom and a kitchenette, but it’s perfect.
Pearl turns down the bed. “There are robes in the closet. Help yourself to whatever you need.”
“Pearl?” I ask as she turns to leave.
She pauses in the doorway. “Yes, sweetie?”
“How do you do it?” I ask. “How do you know? That it’s real? That it’s worth it?”
Pearl smiles, a mysterious, knowing curve of her lips. “You stop fighting it, honey. You just let yourself be happy. It’s terrifying, but it’s the only way.”
She closes the door softly behind her.
I stand in the center of the room. Wellsy jumps onto the bed, circling three times before collapsing.
I take off my wet boots and my coat. I peel off my jeans—they are stiff and uncomfortable, the dried mud chafing my skin. I find a thick, white robe in the closet and pull it on.
I sit on the edge of the bed. The room is quiet. Too quiet.
My mind drifts back to the meadow. To the oak tree.
I think of Boone. The way he looked when he was on his knees in the mud for me. The way he commanded me to look at him. The way his fingers felt inside me.
It was the most intense sexual experience of my life. And it wasn’t just the physical act. It was the emotion behind it. The years of repression finally boiling over.
I press my hands to my face. I can still smell him. The rosemary and the mint. It’s clinging to my skin, buried in my hair.
I curl up on the bed, pulling the heavy quilt over me. Wellsy presses against my back.
I close my eyes, but sleep doesn’t claim me immediately. Instead, images dance behind my eyelids.
I dream of hands.
Three sets of hands.
I’m in a bed, vast and soft. Knox is in front of me, his whiskey-and-ginger scent washing over me. He’s kissing me, his mouth hot and demanding, his hands tangled in my hair.
Rhett is behind me, his chest pressed against my back. His cinnamon-and-espresso warmth seeps into my bones. One of his hands is on my hip, the other cupping my breast, his thumb stroking my nipple with agonizing slowness.
And Boone... Boone is between my legs.
I’m surrounded by them. Protected by them. Consumed by them.
In the dream, there’s no anger. No debt. No ranch. There’s only the heat of their bodies and the rhythm of their breathing. They pass me back and forth, touching me, tasting me, possessing me.
I’m not Saramaria the lawyer. I’m not Saramaria the failure.
I’m just theirs.
I moan in my sleep, arching my back into the dream hands. The pleasure builds, a slow, rolling wave that threatens to pull me under.
“Let go,” a voice whispers in my ear. It sounds like Boone. Or maybe Rhett. Or maybe all three of them at once.
I shatter in the dream, crying out as the pleasure breaks over me.
I wake up with a gasp.
The room is dark. The fire in the small stove has died down to embers.
My heart is pounding. My body is hot, flushed with the aftershocks of the dream.