Chapter 2
Chapter two
Graham
Usually, my good ear picks up the rumble of a truck up the dirt road and alerts me to a visitor.
Tonight, it’s headlights cutting through the pitch black outside like twin blades, slicing through the rain toward the rental cabin, that catch my attention.
I snap shut my laptop and move to the window.
The invoices can wait. And old habits die hard.
Assess the potential threat. Determine how many. Note what they drive.
Single occupant as far as I can tell. Range Rover. No apparent peril.
Not that I let down my guard. Not yet. It may have be four years ago now since the IED stole the hearing in my left ear and a career I loved, but some instincts never fade.
My gaze narrows on the black SUV as it parks. I forgot the rental cabin was booked for this week. It rarely is, being so remote up here on the mountain. The reminder email must have slipped through the cracks.
I’ve been busy with the nonstop orders flooding in ever since Architectural Digest featured that Park Avenue penthouse in July.
My hand-crafted walnut dining table took up half the damn cover photo.
Now, every wealthy urbanite wants a piece of “rustic Vermont authenticity.” Ironic as hell, considering most of them wouldn’t last a day up here.
The guest climbs out, but in the storm, I can’t make out much from this distance, except for the fact it’s a woman. And she’s getting soaked. A minute passes, then another, as she fumbles with something at the front door.
Shit. The lock.
A branch came down hours ago. Right across the power line feeding the smaller cabin. I saw it from my workshop and made a mental note to deal with it in the morning. Now, there’s a woman stuck in the downpour. Locked out there alone.
My jaw clenches. I take pride in my work. Always have. But the past few months have made it hard to squeeze in regular maintenance around here.
My best friend, Eric, told me he’d stop by to help out, but this time of year, he’s as busy as I am with all the leaf peepers wanting guided hikes before the colors fade and winter sets in.
Thunder rolls overhead. With a sigh, I pull on my boots and grab my rain jacket.
Offering up my place is the last thing in the world I want to do, but I have no choice.
It’s not safe to head back down the mountain now.
She can stay here tonight, and I’ll sleep in the rental.
Break in if I have to. It won’t be the first time I’ve spent a night without heat or power.
Hell, a dark cabin with four walls and a roof beats half the places I slept during three tours in godforsaken spots around the globe. At least here, nobody’s shooting at me.
I snag the umbrella beside the door and step out into the storm. Rain pelts my face like cold needles, and I’m halfway down the steps when I realize the guest isn’t near her vehicle anymore. Nope, the small, curvy brunette is stumbling straight toward me through the muck.
Lightning cracks overhead, and for one perfect second, the world goes white.
Christ.
Even soaked to the bone with dark hair plastered to her head, the woman’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in years. Maybe ever. The flash illuminates her delicate features, an elegant neck.
The way her wet clothes cling to her generous curves makes my mouth go dry. She was moving toward me slowly, with determination, despite the storm trying to knock her sideways. Brave as hell. Until the lightning stopped her in her tracks.
“Y’okay?” I call out, raising my voice over the wild storm as I approach, positioning my body to shield her from the worst of it.
She swipes a hand across her face as her gaze seems to take in how close I am, holding the umbrella over her. Blocking the whipping wind.
When those eyes finally lift to mine, it’s like a punch to the gut.
She’s young. Way too young for a man like me.
“The lock won’t work.”
I’m still reeling when her voice hits me like warm whiskey.
Smooth. Cultured. A refined city accent that screams family money and prestigious boarding schools.
I should have expected it from the Range Rover and the way she’s not dressed for the weather.
No matter. Hearing that refined tone makes my cock twitch.
“Power’s out.” I step back, desperate to put space between me and this temptation with pouty pink lips. “Tree took down the line.”
There’s a smudge of mud on her cheek, and her chest rises and falls with quick breaths. Diamond studs in her ears catch the lantern light. Manicured nails. Expensive watch. Everything about her screams privilege and city polish.
But she’s shivering, and something protective and primal, that has nothing to do with logic, unfurls in my gut.
“Graham Hughes. This is my property.”
“Brenna.” She looks up at me through long, wet lashes. Light green eyes sprinkled with gold flecks.
“I’ll fix the power tomorrow.” I gesture toward my cabin, warm light spilling from the windows. “You can stay at my place tonight.”
She stills. A hard swallow rolls down her throat as her gaze rakes over me, lingering on my beard, then dropping to my chest. She’s aware of me. How big I am. The knowledge she’s affected sends adrenaline rushing through my veins.
“I don’t want to…impose.” Her teeth chatter.
“Not a problem.”
That’s that. I invite no more conversation. Rather, I hand her the umbrella and turn back toward the house. She follows without argument.
Good girl.
The storm’s not letting up, and the wind howls through the pines like incoming artillery. Plus, hypothermia doesn’t give a damn about propriety.
Halfway to the porch, she stumbles on uneven ground. I spin and catch her around the waist. Pull her against me. I don’t let go as fast as I should after she finds her footing. She’s soft and warm against my side, and for a heartbeat, neither of us moves.
Finally, I step back, though every fiber in my body screams to keep her close.
By the time we reach my front door, we’re both drenched.
I hold it open for her, taking the umbrella and trying not to notice the way her jeans hug the luscious swell of her hips.
How petite she looks against my doorframe.
She steps inside. My living room lamp illuminates her face, and my heart damn near stops. I knew she was young, but hell, the girl is barely legal. Mid-twenties at most. Soft in all the ways I’ve forgotten women can be. And I’m pushing forty with too many scars and zero patience for complications.
The gorgeous brunette gravitates toward the fireplace, humming as she holds her hands out to the flames.
A puddle forms at her feet on the hardwood.
Firelight dances across features that belong in a painting at a museum.
The scent of her perfume fills the room.
Something floral and expensive that has no business smelling so good.
When she glances back at me over her shoulder, those green eyes reflecting the flames, every rational thought I have goes up in smoke.
“Let me get you a towel,” I say gruffly. “Then I’ll grab your bag from the car.”
“Th-thank you.”
I head to the linen closet, pull out a clean towel, and hand it to her. Our fingers brush when she takes it.
“Keys?” I manage.
She pulls a Range Rover fob from her pocket.
I pluck it out of her open palm. “Be right back.”
A second later, I’m stepping back into the darkness and sucking in a lungful of frigid air.
Rain pelts my face, but it’s a welcome pain.
I need the shock to clear my head. This girl’s a guest. A paying customer.
And she’s too damn innocent for the dirty thoughts running through my mind.
Even if she doesn’t have a ring on her finger.
This was supposed to be simple. She’d dry off. I’d put fresh sheets on my bed and leave her be. In the morning, I’d fix the power, so she could move into the rental where she belongs and I could go back to my quiet life of solitude.
But when I close my eyes, I picture her by my fireplace, humming under her breath. It’s been forever since I’ve had a woman here. Longer since I’ve wanted one to stay.
I head down the hill toward her vehicle. Every instinct I’ve honed over my thirty-nine years tells me to keep my distance. This girl’s trouble wrapped in designer denim.
But there’s no way in hell I’m sleeping in that cold cabin tonight. Not when she’s here. Not when every protective instinct I have is roaring to life.