Two
“H ey!”
Rheo rested her forehead on the door and shivered as his deep voice rolled under the frame, through the cracks, and penetrated the wood. For the first time, goose bumps pebbled her skin and tiny fireworks exploded in her stomach. They’d just looked at each other, for God’s sake!
Stop lusting and start thinking, dammit!
If he walked away, he’d contact Carrie and ask her why Rheo was living in the house he’d rented. The police would be called, and... boom!
If she told him her grandmother owned the house and Carrie was her cousin, he’d tell Carrie there was a mix-up and... boom!
Carrie would tell Paddy...
Big boom!
“I’m just going to call Carrie and get this sorted,” he told her, his deep voice barely muffled by the thick door.
Carrie, according to her Instagram account, was live-streaming her hike to the summit of an active volcano— typical —and Rheo doubted she’d answer his call. But she might, so Rheo yanked the door open and snatched his phone.
“What the hell?” he demanded, looking from his empty hand to hers.
“Don’t call her. We can sort this out,” Rheo said, hating the note of panic in her voice.
He plucked his phone back. “Who are you? And why am I discussing any of this with you?”
His expression hardened, and suspicion flared in his eyes. Damn, she’d run out of choices.
“I’m Rheo Whitlock, Carrie’s my cousin, and our grandmother, Paddy, owns this place.”
“Rheo...” He rolled her name over his tongue and another flash of lust smacked her. Oh, for God’s sake!
Rheo sucked in some much-needed air. “Who did you say you are?”
His lips lifted in a sexy half smile. “I didn’t, but I’m Fletcher Wright. Fletch to my friends.”
It was a good name, a strong name, but not one she recognized. He knew Carrie and he enjoyed outdoor pursuits, so he was probably part of her making-adventure-and-travel-documentaries world.
“Producer, director, or sound guy?”
Amusement flickered in his eyes, turning them a shade lighter. “I’ve done all of the above before.”
It wasn’t an explanation, but his occupation didn’t matter. And although he’d been patient up to this point, he had to be wondering why she hadn’t invited him into the house he’d rented.
He lifted his duffel bag—it looked heavy—and glanced at his bells-and-whistles watch. Rheo caught the flicker of impatience on his tired face. Thick blue stripes under his eyes suggested exhaustion, and despite his bulk, he looked to be a few pounds underweight. It was obvious he needed a week of solid sleep and decent meals.
But what he needed wasn’t important—she couldn’t afford to lose focus. She should invite him inside, but she couldn’t, not yet. If she let Fletcher Wright walk into the house, his presence would change her life in ways she hadn’t anticipated or planned for.
Her life was plenty complicated already, thanks very much.
“So, just to be clear...you are renting this house?” she asked.
Maybe she could find a solution to her quandary in the next thirty seconds.
Irritation flickered in his eyes at her question, but he nodded his response.
“For how long?”
“I’m not sure yet, but a minimum of three weeks. I have the option to extend the lease if I want to.”
Three weeks? Holy shit! That long?
“You mentioned something about Carrie coming back?” she asked, hoping she’d misunderstood him. She couldn’t cope with Captivating Carrie right now. “When?”
“She said she’d be here in two weeks. We intend to kayak the Little White Salmon together.”
Despite her lack of interest in anything outdoorsy, Rheo knew the Little White Salmon was a world-famous kayaking run not far from here, offering incredible rapids... if you possessed the skills to attempt it. Competent Carrie did.
“We’re also going to do some trail running, some soloing,” Fletcher added.
Soloing was shorthand for rope-free climbing, and Rheo pulled a why-would-you-want-to-do-that face.
He grinned. “Which one don’t you like? Trail running or climbing?”
Rheo waved her hand in the direction of Mount Hood. “All of it. Getting sweaty and dirty is not my idea of fun.”
He leaned his big shoulder into the wall next to the front door and examined her face, his expression more intense than before. “I remember Carrie mentioning you. You have an important job in the city, and you work incessantly, right?”
He made it sound like work was all she did...
To be fair, he wasn’t wrong. She did work long hours. She heard the questions he was too polite to ask out loud— Jesus, how can you live like that? Don’t you feel like a rat on a wheel? —and sighed. Compared to her van-life-loving parents and the wildly adventurous, sexy, and charismatic presenter/adventurer/influencer Carrie, Rheo’s life sounded dreary. But it was her life, her choice, and she didn’t need to be constantly moving or climbing mountains or swimming with sharks to be content.
A good book and a glass of wine worked for her.
Everyone in her family, except for Paddy, felt the need to try to save her from her mindless existence— For God’s sake, live a little more! You need more stamps in your passport, Rheo! Do you even own a passport, Rheo? —so she kept her interactions with them to a minimum, restricting their communications to a monthly email, and a call every two weeks for her to catch up on their adventures and for her parents to sigh when they heard her life was the exactly the same as last month and the month before. If they were in the same area, they sometimes met up to celebrate birthdays, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. If teeth-pulling conversation could be called celebrating.
And that was exactly why they’d be assuming now, that she still lived in the city and worked at the UN. They didn’t know her career was in tatters or that she was fighting to find her way back to who she was before.
“It’s a gorgeous house and bigger than I realized,” Fletcher said, looking past her into the hall.
And it was the house he’d paid to lease. He had the right to be here; she didn’t. Theoretically, she should pack up and ship out. But where would she go? Abi would let her sleep on her couch for a night or two, but Rheo was allergic to sharing her living space with anyone...which was the primary reason Callum had dumped her last year. He’d wanted them to move in together, but Rheo believed the three nights a week he slept over was two too many.
But the Pink House was way bigger than her apartment and definitely big enough to house two people who wanted, or needed, to live separate lives. Would Fletcher let her stay for a little while, just long enough to make a new plan? And if he did, would he also agree to keep her presence in Gilmartin a secret until she figured out what to do, where to go, and how to wiggle out of her self-created predicament?
She knew what she should do—bite the bullet and tell Paddy, and her parents, how she’d screwed up—but if she could get away with keeping her goat rodeo shit show under wraps, she would.
Pride might come before a fall, but at least she didn’t have that far to drop.
Rheo rubbed the back of her neck. Okay, even if she managed to persuade Fletcher to share the house, how would she cope with living with him? He couldn’t be ignored: he was a big guy and took up space. He exuded capability and charisma, the kind people noticed when walking into a room. It often happened at the UN. If one looked past the head honcho leading political delegations, there was someone at the back of the retinue not saying much, but when he (or she) did, people listened. And responded. Immediately. The power behind the mouthpiece, the true leader.
Fletcher was the same. Whether he meant to or not, knew it or not, he commanded attention.
He was also the first man who’d literally made her feel exhilarated . Dammit. Was this what her parents experienced when they scaled a rock face? What Carrie felt when she dived with white sharks or bungee-jumped off the bridge over Victoria Falls? All shaky and shivery and shiny? If yes, then Rheo didn’t care for it. She liked stability in her emotions as well as her life, thank you very much.
Rheo watched old Mrs. Nicolson walk by, her head swiveling at the strange man standing on her doorstep. Rheo jerked her chin, gesturing for Fletcher to come inside.
He dropped his duffel bag to the black-and-white tiled floor and lowered his laptop case to rest on his bag, his attention caught by an oversized, colorful, but unsettling painting on the opposite wall. Paddy was convinced it was a work by Georgia O’Keeffe, one of her flower paintings, but Rheo thought it was porn adjacent and wished she’d take it down.
Fletcher asked to use the bathroom, and Rheo directed him to the small one behind the stairs. The door clicked shut, and Rheo ran her fingertips over her forehead, conscious of her pounding head. Her meeting with Nicole had left her drained, and having a sexy stranger drop onto her doorstep with the intention of staying knocked her off-balance.
Think, Rheo!
If she sent him away, he would call Carrie, and within thirty minutes, her phone would blow up with calls and messages from her family.
She couldn’t tell them she’d failed. How would she explain her life was a mess and she was consumed by uncertainty? Oh, they weren’t horrible people, they could be fun and great company, but she couldn’t handle any Come down to earth with a bump, haven’t you? comments.
Look, she didn’t blame them; there had been a few times when she’d been pretty vociferous while expressing her scorn for their adventurous, nomadic lifestyles. She’d reprimanded her father for demanding to see Paddy’s will, told Carrie she was insanely careless for visiting volatile Kashmir, and rolled her eyes at her mom’s devotion to homeopathic medicines when an old-fashioned antibiotic would make her better quicker. It was human to gloat.
Carrie, who’d never met a secret she didn’t spill, would tell Paddy that Rheo was staying at the Pink House, and an intense interrogation from her grandmother would commence. Her grandmother was many things—sensibly adventurous, soulful, intelligent, and shrewd—but she did not suffer fools, and she wasn’t, and never had been, warm and fuzzy.
After Rheo explained she’d screwed up and bolted to Gilmartin, Paddy, always straightforward, wouldn’t hesitate to wade in. After roasting her for using the house without permission, she’d drop a few conversational nuclear bombs in a withering tone.
I didn’t raise you to wallow in self-pity, Rheo.
I expect you to admit your mistakes and face your problems. I am annoyed, and insulted, by your lack of action.
Hand-wringing wasn’t Paddy’s style.
Rheo tasted panic and her throat tightened. She wasn’t nearly strong enough to deal with Paddy’s take-no-prisoners commentary on her fucked-up life, not just yet.
Possibly not ever.
She needed a plan and another place to live. Unfortunately, that meant letting Fletcher Wright invade her privacy, upset her equilibrium, invigorate her libido, and move in. What other choice did she have?
Fuck all.
But would he let her stay?
Rheo lifted her head as Fletcher crossed the hallway to where she stood. She clocked his confusion and a hint of disquiet. His sandy brows pulled together, and he gestured to the impressive front door. His movement drew attention to an intricate tattoo on the underside of his right arm, something arty and finely drawn. An ancient Greek sprite or a Roman goddess? She needed to inspect it up close to make sure.
“I’m not an idiot. I know you’re living here.”
Rheo wrinkled her nose and tipped her head, waiting for him to speak again. There was no point denying it.
“If Carrie was aware, she would’ve told me. You’re keeping it a secret, for some reason, from them. How am I doing so far?”
“Pretty good.”
“Where would you go if you left here?” Fletch asked.
Rheo spread her hands out. “I don’t know. I’ve been trying to figure that out.”
“It’s a huge house and we can share it until you figure that out. But if you’re uncomfortable doing that, I can book into a hotel, it’s not a problem.”
“I can’t expect you to do that. You’re paying to be here,” she replied. Even if she could bypass her conscience to let him pay and leave, there was another problem. “I doubt you’d find a place to stay. Gilmartin is wildly popular during spring and summer, and hotel rooms are always hard to find. Besides, I should be moving out, not you,” Rheo added, knowing she sounded glum.
His smile was more reassuring than she deserved. “As I said, it’s a big place and I don’t mind sharing. But if at any point you’re unhappy about me staying in the house, I’ll return to Portland. It’s not a big deal,” he told her, his words gentler than she expected.
That would require explanations to Carrie, who would... blah, blah, blah. Rheo rubbed her fingers across her forehead. Les carottes sont cuites! Either way, her carrots were cooked.
She snuck another look at him and a ripple of panic ran up her spine. Oh, he didn’t scare her, he wouldn’t hurt her, but her reaction to him terrified her. On meeting him, she’d stepped into an unstable bucket floating on a tempestuous ocean, and scariest of all, she liked this out-of-control feeling. All shaky and flaky and...yeah, weird.
She was weird. As Carrie often reminded her.
“But are you okay with me staying? Just until I get some of my ducks in a row?” she asked. Hah! Currently, her ducks were either stoned or drunk and she’d lost one or two.
One big shoulder lifted and dropped. “Sure, it’s not a big deal.”
Thank God.
“Thank you so much. I’ll be gone before Carrie gets here. And I’ll stay out of your way,” Rheo added.
“We’re just friends,” Fletcher informed her. So he and the glamorous oh-so-confident Carrie weren’t involved! Whoot! She didn’t question why elation drifted through her.
“Thank you,” Rheo told him, rocking on her heels.
He’d given her a massive gift, the gift of time, and she was grateful. Now she needed to use it. She couldn’t mess around or procrastinate anymore. Her sole objective was to start untangling her messy life.
“Is that your grandmother?”
Rheo followed his gaze to the large silver-framed photo of her grandmother on the hall table. She smiled. “Yep, that’s Paddy Whitlock, the one and only.”
Thank God. The world couldn’t cope with two of the same type.
Fletcher looked at the painting, lifted his eyebrows, and rested his hands on his hips. “Carrie’s told me a little about her over the years.”
“Like what?”
“I remember her saying that she treated Gilmartin as her fiefdom for more than fifty years. She had three sons, but the oldest one died in his...midtwenties.”
Rheo nodded. “She’s currently exploring Australia before she gets old.” Paddy was moving from luxury accommodation to luxury accommodation, taking in the sights along the way. It was, in Rheo’s mind, a sensible way to explore the world.
“She’s in her eighties, right? Isn’t she already old?”
Rheo laughed, enjoying him. “Don’t ever say those words to her face. She will rip you apart. What else did Carrie tell you about Paddy?”
How many family secrets had her blabby cousin shared with Fletcher? Rheo particularly wanted to know what Carrie had said about her.
Actually, knowing how dismissive Carrie could be about her “boring” life and career, maybe she didn’t.
“Ah...let me think. Paddy divorced her extremely rich husband and vowed she would never remarry.”
“Their divorce was Gilmartin’s great scandal of the summer of sixty-five, partly because they got divorced, mostly because she got the Whitlock family home in the settlement. She celebrated by opening this house up to anyone who caught her fancy. Every summer, she returned to the Pink House, and her parties became the stuff of legend. Some summers she hosted visitors for weeks or months on end,” Rheo said.
And many visitors, male and frequently married, shared Paddy’s bed. (Gilmartin residents still spoke of the spring, fall, and summer scandals of ’67, ’73, and ’81). Paddy’s love life was none of Rheo’s business, and she didn’t care about her lovers. Paddy was simply her grandmother, always welcoming and accepting. Paddy showed Rheo love by handing her a pile of books and allowing her to fall into the world between the pages. Paddy never made her take long hikes, nor did she expect Rheo to spend her time kayaking or climbing. Paddy allowed her to just be .
Her grandmother spoke French and Italian and encouraged Rheo to study other languages. She also nagged her to talk and engage with people, reminding Rheo she would never find her tribe if she didn’t show people who she was. It was a lesson she had yet to master.
But points to her for finding Abi at one of the darkest times in her life. Abi, without much effort, slid into Rheo’s life and under her skin, and their friendship was easy.
Rheo looked into her grandmother’s blue eyes, eyes she’d inherited, and dropped her head in a small nod. Point taken, Paddy.
Fletcher shuffled behind her, and Rheo imagined Paddy’s cutting comments about her lack of hospitality. She should take him to his room or give him a tour of the house. Paddy loved showing off her house, pointing out its handcrafted staircase, the handmade stained-glass windows, the views of the river and forests, and the mountains in the distance.
“I’ll show you to the guest bedroom.” Rheo nodded to his duffel bag. “Do you want to grab your stuff?”
“Tell me where to go and where to find linens and stuff. I can make the bed and sort myself out,” Fletcher told her.
By Paddy’s decree, the guest rooms, pristine and perfect, were always ready and required no fussing. But Rheo could’ve done with time to prepare for Fletcher’s unexpected arrival. She planned, wrote lists, and wasn’t an embrace-the-moment type of girl. She needed time, and lots of it, to adjust. And that was why, four months later, she hadn’t come to terms with all the changes in her life.
How was she expected to handle her fierce, highly flammable attraction to this man?
“You won’t need to feed, water, or entertain me, and I’ll try and stay out of your way as much as possible,” Fletcher said, following her.
Oh God, her hosting skills were so rusty! He was the tenant, she the temporarily homeless squatter.
“And I don’t want to interrupt your work,” he told her as they hit the first-floor landing.
Her work? What work? She turned to face him, frowning.
He gestured to her clothes. “Judging by your outfit, I assume you work online. You know, professional on top...”
“ Oh! I had a meeting with my boss earlier.”
“So, you do work?”
She wished. “I’m on sabbatical.” Fletcher cocked his head, waiting for more. “I’m a simultaneous interpreter.”
Wow. She never used big words to explain her job, but she wanted to impress him. Pathetic.
He scratched his head and looked confused. He looked kind of adorable. In a way that a ten-foot grizzly could look cuddly.
“I understand the words, but I’m not sure I get the concept.”
“I’m a translator at the United Nations. I translate and speak in real time, facilitating communication between parties who speak different languages.”
She heard the pride in her words, then felt shame on their heels. She’d jeopardized a job she loved, then made mistake after mistake.
Fletcher looked interested, so she continued. “Interpreters and translators are the lifeblood of the United Nations. Our linguistic skills put everyone on the same page. We facilitate communication and make the world a safer place. World leaders place their words in our hands, trusting we’ll accurately get their messages across. It’s a huge responsibility.”
Heat hit her cheeks, and Rheo silently cursed, wishing she hadn’t climbed onto her soapbox. He’d asked what she did, not for a dissertation about the importance of her job. It was easy to imagine Carrie rolling on the floor, laughing at Rheo’s lack of cool. Rheo waited for Fletcher’s response, her stomach in a knot.
“That’s seriously impressive.”
God, when had someone last looked at her like she was smart, remarkable...extraordinary? When had she last felt seen ?
She’d trained herself to believe being alone was fine, desirable even, but his comment pierced her armor of self-sufficiency, a brief reminder of how wonderful it was to be admired, even appreciated.
Paddy, who never needed anyone’s validation, would mock her for being weak enough to care how other people saw her. But Rheo sometimes— most times —did. She’d been forced into being emotionally self-sufficient at a young age, but she still hadn’t gotten the hang of it.
Disconcerted by her attraction to Fletch, physical and now mental, Rheo opened the door to the guest room and walked inside, enjoying the cool, navy-and-white color scheme and the clean lines of the nonfussy furniture. The room suited Fletcher, who seemed like a no-frills type of guy.
He dropped his duffel bag to the floor and placed his laptop case on the surface of the wooden desk sitting under the wide sash windows. He took in the view of the forest and mountains in the distance, but she kept her eyes on him.
Her view was much better.
He was an action man, not handsome enough to be on magazine covers, but his vitality would turn heads. Interesting, attractive, magnetic...all those adjectives applied. As they did to her cousin. He and Carrie were ridiculously alike, both blond, beautiful, and bold.
But Rheo accepted his statement about there being nothing more than friendship between them. A good thing, because she couldn’t think of anything worse than snacking on Carrie’s leftovers.
Nothing would happen with Fletcher Wright. Life was complicated, and Rheo was too much of an emotional train wreck to think about sleeping with her new housemate.
You met him a short while ago, Whitlock, and you’re already thinking about jumping him?
Who are you?
“I think you’ll be comfortable in here,” Rheo said, heading for the door to put some distance between them. The normally spacious room seemed small, and Rheo sensed the walls closing in on her.
“Thanks.”
She couldn’t help it, she just needed to check one more time. “And if Carrie phones or contacts you, you won’t—”
His eyes narrowed and Rheo caught his irritation, a smidgen of anger. Standing in his line of fire wouldn’t be a fun experience.
“I’ve already said that I won’t tell Carrie you’re here,” he stated, his voice colder than before. “But I won’t lie to her if she asks.”
Okay, message received. Loud and clear. “Thank you.”
Rheo lifted her bare foot to rub it against the back of her calf. He’d given her two weeks to sort out her life. Maybe a shorter deadline was exactly what she needed—it allowed her no time to brood or overanalyze. She needed to make a plan and put it into action. She could do it, she would do it...
Mostly because she didn’t have a choice but to do it.
God, life could be such a temperamental bitch on occasion.
Fletcher turned and slid his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, pulling his T-shirt tight against his broad chest. His biceps stretched his sleeves. Desire, hot and sparkly, skittered along her skin.
“But I need you to do something for me.” His eyes, now a deeper, bolder green, drilled into hers and pinned her to the spot.
She pulled in some air, and disappointment rippled through her. They’d made a deal and he was backtracking, reopening negotiations. What would he demand to keep her secrets? Man, she prayed he didn’t ask her for something sleazy; she’d hate it if his pretty packaging concealed a jerk.
His eyes lightened and she caught a hint of a dimple in his stubble-covered cheek. His smile combined mischief and sex, and she couldn’t imagine saying no to him— ever . Strange, because she always took her time to figure out her answer. And it was seldom yes.
Electricity arced, Rheo’s body hummed, and she suspected the paint on the walls was starting to blister. “Um...okay. What?”
Fletcher took his time answering her. “Coffee.”
Coffee? How could he be thinking about coffee?
“A cup of coffee, two sugars, would hit the spot.”
Seriously?
Fletcher raised his eyebrows, and she noticed the naughty twinkle in his eyes. He was messing with her.
She expected irritation, but laughter bubbled up her throat. Carrie was just as confident, but her confidence made Rheo feel less than, insignificant. His didn’t. But, like her cousin, Fletcher had no issues asking for what he wanted, whether it was coffee or sex.
He definitely wanted coffee, but...
Did that mean sex was off the table? She’d met him just a half hour ago, but it seemed longer, as if he’d been part of her life for years rather than minutes. She felt comfortable with him, like she could grab his hand if she needed someone to steady her.
Madness. Her imagination was running away with her. She saved herself. Always had, always would.
But coffee...
Yeah, she could make him coffee. If her now completely melted brain remembered how.