25. Zee
“Hey, do you have a minute?”
Twirling on my office chair to face the door, I find my husband standing there.
It’s still very surreal. Not only to think about Colton Korhonen being that—my husband—but how I’m here in this house.
What doesn’t help?
The fact he’s leaning against the doorjamb in a plaid shirt and jeans that do things to those thighs of his which should be beyond my attention.
It also doesn’t help that Parker and Tee have been driving me crazy about how hot he is and telling me to be a proper cowgirl and to jump on his?—
“Zee?”
I clear my throat when I realize I was sitting there.
Staring at him.
He knows it too.
His smile’s…
Pained?
Ugh.
“What did you want?”
His gaze drops to my jersey. At least, I think it does.
He couldn’t possibly be checking out my?—
“Since when are you a hockey fan? You hated it when you were younger.”
I need to not be disappointed that he wasn’t checking me out.
Why would I be disappointed?
Colt and I mean nothing to one another.
Absolutely nada.
“I do hate it,” I grouse, thoroughly annoyed by my so-called friends and the stupid fantasies they’re triggering in my stupid, stupid, stupid brain. “But Tee loves it. She couldn’t get Parker to attend the All-Star game in New York so she dragged me along for the ride.”
He smirks. “Lemme guess… you fell asleep?”
I kind of hate that he still knows me well while also loving it.
It’s complicated.
“I might have. But the night was a good one?—”
“You had a nice dream, huh?”
I squint at his mockery. “Tee bought me this jersey as a memento.”
“Not going to lie. It pisses me off that you’re wearing another man’s name.”
If anything could have me gawking at him, it’s that.
“Huh?”
That shouldn’t be hot.
Shouldn’t be.
But it is.
And my brain is dumber than I thought!
His shoulder hitches. “I’m surprised too. Anyway, I have some papers for you to look over. If you want to come to my office?”
Still gawking at him, I watch him leave my room, unsure how I feel about his admission.
Mostly because I kind of liked hearing that.
And I shouldn’t. Should I? This has to be forced proximity?—
“You coming or not?”
His holler has me jerking to my feet and scurrying after him.
I need to catch up because I have no idea where his office is located in the house.
His gaze is locked on his damn phone when he hears my footsteps. A quick glance at me has him heading down the stairs. Honestly, it’s a wonder he isn’t tripping up, down, left, and right with how often he’s glued to his cell.
“What do you need me to sign?”
“This and that.”
“Helpful.”
His eyes twinkle as he looks at me. “Don’t I know it. I also figured it was time you knew where some of the rooms were. Mrs. Abelman told me you refused her offer of a guided tour.”
“Why do you call her Mrs. Abelman?”
“That’s her name.”
“I call her Ida.”
“I can’t call her that. She’s Mrs. Abelman to me. Has Callan shown you around the place at least?”
“To his favorite den so we can play games.” As I step onto the first floor, I murmur, “I thought you might have given me the tour.”
“Why would I do that? I’m not going to force my presence on you when you don’t want it, Zee,” he dismisses, making me feel bad, but then he thought I killed his horse…
Bad is relative.
I don’t answer because I have no idea how to, so, in silence, we meander along a hall that I didn’t know was here and he guides me into an office.
Much like the rest of the house, it’s massive.
Bigger than my bedroom, even.
It’s also not to Colton’s style.
I might not have spoken to the man in a decade, but this is too dark and dour for his taste. The walls are paneled in a rich redwood and his desk matches. There are no pictures, only paintings of landscapes. The desk itself has a large screen on it and a keyboard.
It’s surprisingly neat.
Very boring.
And so shadow-filled that the overhead light doesn’t make a dent in the inherent gloom.
Though the room doesn’t suit him, he’s at ease in it. Which tells me he’s been using Clyde’s office as his own for a long time, longer than he’s been sleeping in Clyde’s suite.
The family politics shouldn’t interest me but they do.
It’s complicated, okay?!
Speaking of family—there’s a large picture on a bookcase shelf. Something tells me that Colt put it there, not Clyde. While there are no other trinkets that are related to the man having sons, Colt’s not in-frame so I figure he took it.
Wearing a back-to-front cap, Cole’s grinning at the camera, his arms slung around a uniformed Cody and a miniature Callan who’s more scowl than anything else.
It does a great job of highlighting each brother’s unique personality.
Cole’s always been exuberant—he made every teacher’s life hell, so much so they were glad when he got billeted in another province—Callan’s brooding but at peace because he’s with his brothers, and Cody looks like the world is resting on his shoulders. It’s a trait he shares with Colt, but it’s different. How couldn’t it be when he’s in active service?
Then, right beside it, I squint at a piece of cardboard that’s in a frame. Bending down to get a better look at it, I realize it’s a baseball card—Honus Wagner. Whoever the hell he is. Still, must be important if it’s next to the picture of the boys.
Colt slouches in his desk chair, waving a hand for me to take a seat opposite him. “Get it out. You’ll feel better for it.”
“Who took the picture?”
“Me.”
That sums him up entirely.
Always watching. Shielding.
The parent.
That’s what happens, no?
The parent takes the picture. Well, the mom. But it’s not like Lindsay was permitted to be around after the divorce. And it has to be a while ago. Callan’s more kid than preteen.
I tip the frame at him. “It’s a good composition.”
“That’s all Cody. He’s the photographer of the family.”
“Why aren’t you in the shot then?”
“Didn’t want to be.”
Humming, I drift over to the desk. “Why haven’t you changed this room?”
He blinks. “I didn’t think either of those questions were what you were going to ask.”
“You mean you don’t know everything? Shock, horror!”
His sheepish grin is half-shielded by his hand as he scratches his jaw.
I forgot how much I missed that nervous tick of his.
It always made me want to smooth my fingers over his stubble.
That’s when I see the two coffee cups on the desk and I know one is for me because it’s the color of mud—just enough milk to take off the bitterness.
I also know it’ll have no sugar in it.
When I reach for it, he nods ever-so-slightly as I take it, murmuring, “It’s always been Pops’s room. Why would I change it?”
“It’s not anymore though, is it?”
The coffee is prepared perfectly.
He’s always seen too much.
“No. But it doesn’t bother me.”
“How can’t it?” Pulling a face, I glance around the space. “It’s so depressing. And how do you see what you’re doing without ten lights on?”
“Is that you asking me to turn on ten lights?”
“Yeah, if you want me to sign something.”
“Quite a few somethings.” He taps the desk. “Nothing major. Just the transfer of ownership from Juliette to you and the triplets.”
I stagger back, hard enough for the coffee in my hand to spill. “Nothing major?”
“Was that you entering a whole other octave?”
“Y-You… You’re s-serious?” I sputter, deciding that it’ll be safer all round if I return the coffee to the coaster on the desk.
“Sure am. There are also power-of-attorney forms.”
“On whose behalf?”
“Mine so that I can act for you in matters regarding the Bar 9.” His chair creaks as he rocks it. “It’s fine if you don’t want to sign that over to me yet though. I know it’s a big ask.”
“You think I’d sign myself over to you but not the Bar 9?”
“You didn’t sign yourself over to me.”
“Sure I did. You figure the Bar 9 means more to me than my safety? If Grand-mère had tried to get me to marry your father, I’d have run away faster than you could say ‘Zee.’ But, you’re you. I know you wouldn’t do anything to hurt me. Or the Bar 9. Unlike your father.”
“Wish I could say otherwise, but he’d take advantage of the situation for sure.”
“You, on the other hand, want our child to have a legacy, don’t you?”
It’s getting easier to say those words without triggering a panic attack.
Our. Child.
At his nod, I step toward the desk and take a seat opposite him. His phone, forever in his hand, receives a few taps, and a welter of light floods the desk.
“Better?”
“Much.”
He leaves me in silence to read the agreements and myriad papers that are unsurprisingly simple because this isn’t necessarily a merger here. Colton will be acting as a guardian of sorts until our child can inherit.
Head bowed over the documents, I hold out my hand. In silence, he places a pen on my palm. I know it’s accidental, but his fingers drag over the tender skin there, and how I contain a shiver is a miracle worthy of canonization.
That slight contact has the tiny hairs at my nape standing to attention. It rushes along my spine, spurring every nerve ending into wakefulness.
And that’s nothing to the party taking place in my panties.
With a shuddery breath, I force myself to focus.
Legalese. Addendums. Codicils.
They’re a language I can hide in.
A language I shouldn’t need to hide in because Colton’s only a temporary husband.
So why is my body not obeying my brain?
When I’m done, the task that should’ve taken ten minutes having tripled in time because of my drifting focus, a slip of paper slides onto the desk in front of me. But it’s different. The paper’s yellowed and there are a bunch of crinkles marring the sheet.
“Your uncle’s will?” I sputter.
His hum is an invitation to read the contents.
As I do, my eyes grow wider with every clause.
“Where did you find this?”
“I didn’t. Mrs. Abelman did when she was packing up Pops’s stuff.”
“You mean he kept this?!”
Nodding, he rubs his thumb over his top lip.
“I knew the man was arrogant, but this is proof he’s an imbecile.”
“Clay left him nothing but a parcel of land outside Estevan. Eight years ago, they discovered an oil field on it. They reckon there are twenty million barrels of oil to extract. That document’s proof he owns it—not me.”
Flabber truly gasted, I mumble, “So, he never had any rights to run the ranch?”
“No. It always irked me that Uncle Clay picked him over me. He used to tell me that I’d be the next person who’d protect the Seven Cs.
“When Pops took control, I didn’t think to question it. I just figured Uncle Clay changed his mind as it’s only tradition that sees the eldest son of the next generation inherit everything.
“Prior to the oil being discovered, Pops would only have had his trust fund to get by. They meter out the dividends annually. Recipients don’t receive a bulk sum.”
“And if you have fancy taste…”
“Like Pops does,” he continues, “then it’s not enough and will run out fast. I know for a fact he’d have been in debt. It’s how he works. When I took over the ranch, he owed our creditors millions despite having the liquidity to cover the loans.”
“Why are you showing me this?” I ask, tone soft.
“There’s your motive. That is why he set fire to the stables. It’s why he didn’t let the horses loose. Franny was a blood bay with a sire who’d won gold at the Kentucky Derby. She won the King’s Plate the previous year and we were starting her on the US circuit for the upcoming season. Alone, her insurance payout would have given him the funds to establish himself.”
Bewildered, I just gape at him.
“He falsified Uncle Clay’s will—I have a copy of that too. But because he’s useless at ranching, we were operating near bankruptcy that season and had no working capital. So, to save the Seven Cs from ruin, he set fire to the stables, banked the millions from the insurance, and coasted along like the best of con artists.”
Feeling sick, I ball my hands into fists that I press into my lap. It’s either that or tear the will apart.
“I hate him,” I intone, the words seething with my wrath.
“No more than I do,” is his grim retort.
“What are you going to do?”
“That’s the bitch of it. Though I’ve set an investigation into motion, I have no proof that he did set fire to the stables. Only an eyewitness…”
The sensation of nausea swirling around my insides intensifies. “You want me to file a report?”
“That’s down to you,” he assures me, his voice calm, as if he can read my panic.
My mind drifts to the many times that people blamed me for the fire.
And that same old fear metastasizes inside me.
“No one would believe me,” I rasp.
“I do.”
I jerk to my feet. “You’re you and even you didn’t believe me without the Loki connection. Everyone in town hates me.”
“More than they hate him?”
“No. They’re scared of him. All the more reason to keep things simple and blame me.” My hands are trembling as I cup my elbows. “Y-You know the authorities would never take my side over his. I-I want to b-but?—”
He gets to his feet too. Warily, I watch him approach me. As his hands settle on my shoulders, he urges me to lean on him.
For a second, I hover there.
I want to collapse into him, needing him to prop me up when I’m most vulnerable, but this isn’t ten years ago.
Then, one of those large paws of his settles at the center of my back.
The heat of it whispers through me, like smoke getting into all the cracks, warming me from the inside out.
He encourages me to rest against him, and because I’m a weak, weak, weak woman, I do.
Gingerly, he curves his arms around me, and as the scent of him permeates the air, I sag in his hold.
God, he feels good.
So strong and stalwart.
As if he could take the burden of the world off my back and would carry it for me.
But that’s wishful thinking, isn’t it?
I’m just his temporary wife?—
“It’s fine, Zee. I’ll have to figure something else out.”
When his chin settles on the crown of my head, I nearly choke because I’m surrounded by him at all angles. That’s when the realization hits: I haven’t felt this safe since the last time he held me this way.
The day that changed both our lives—forever.
Tears prick my eyes at how wonderful the sensation is.
To be under this man’s protection, temporarily or not, is a glorious thing—all the more so because I know what it’s like to have it and to exist without it.
Then, he shifts, not to end the hug but to tuck my chin in his grasp and tilt my head so he can look at me. “I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do.”
Still trembling, I study him. “What’s your goal, Colt?”
“To make the bastard pay.”
Though my lips part at his answer, when his head bows, I’m prepared for the fallout.
The air around us has shifted—turned. Grown charged.
His mouth hovers so close to mine.
Is he going to kiss me?
His jaw tightens and he moves again, higher this time. When he brushes my forehead with a soft peck, I stiffen and, like a fool, cup his jaw and unite our mouths, half expecting him to pull away.
But he doesn’t.
He kisses me back.
He. Kisses. Me. Back.
My inner teenager is squealing in delight, but the adult Zee knows that this is a kiss beyond compare.
He tastes like coffee and the sugar cookies Ida bakes for him.
Before I can have a meltdown, against my stomach, I feel him harden.
The way he explores me has my heart pounding and my lungs burning, but it’s worth it. So worth it. His tongue tangles with mine. Fast at first, until he slows it down and I realize I was the one rushing it.
My skin feels tight. I want to crawl out of my clothes and onto him, but I don’t. Can’t. Not when his hands cup my chin like mine hold his.
Neither of us is letting go. We’re staying put and there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than here until the end of time.
But, of course, life doesn’t work that way.
Eventually, he edges away.
My lips tingle with the ferocity of that kiss, the hunger, and the fire, and I drop my forehead against his chest.
I can feel his heartbeat pounding. Experience the rush of his lungs as he brings his breathing under control.
He doesn’t push me aside.
If anything, he encourages me to lean on him.
And for the first time, I get the feeling that he’d let me do that forever.
Not just until I have his baby.
But I was wrong before…
Am I now?