10. Sofia #2
Who was he really? I had learned so much about him since I’d first tackled him in the elevator.
I knew that Rick was the oldest of three boys, with Jax in the middle and Chris being the youngest. He cared enough about his mother to take her out to dinner and pull her chair out for her.
He actually listened to his employees and cared about them.
I found this out when I heard about Regan, one of the ladies in accounting, who had to go in for an MRI to check if her cancer was back.
Not only did Rick give her the day off, but when she found out that her cancer had returned, he’d told her that she could take as much time as she needed or she could work from home until she was back in good health.
A minute later, the front door bumped shut, and Rick walked back into the kitchen carrying the boards and my supplies. He set it all down on the island with a soft exhale, then opened the stainless-steel double doors of the massive refrigerator.
“Hopefully, we’ve got some beer in here too,” he said, a roguish, devastatingly handsome smirk playing on his lips as he leaned his hip against the counter. “Yes, the fridge is fully stocked for us.” He motioned.
I arched an eyebrow and walked over to look. My jaw dropped. The shelves were meticulously packed with sleek, labeled containers. There was so much food there, I was shocked.
“Is this…” I started and then looked closely at the premium labels. “It’s all for us?”
“Yes. They’re pre-made meals from Peak Provisions, a place down in Estes,” Rick said.
He was close enough that I could feel the radiating warmth of his body.
The faint scents of cedar and sandalwood wrapped around me like a hug.
“We have gourmet elk sliders, truffle mac and cheese, green chili braised beef… everything is already seasoned, prepped, and ready to just toss in the microwave or oven or on the stove. We don’t have to chop a single onion.
” He chuckled. “My family always stocks up on their meals when we come up here. I ordered a few of my favorites. I hope that’s okay. ”
I turned around slowly, my back pressing against the cool edge of the open refrigerator door. Rick hadn’t moved back. He was standing less than a foot away, looking down at me with an intensity in his blue eyes that made my breath hitch completely.
“You thought of everything, didn’t you?” I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs so loudly I was certain he could hear it.
“I try,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, thrilling register that vibrated straight down to my toes.
He reached out, his thumb gently brushing a stray lock of dark hair away from my cheek.
His touch was electric, leaving a trail of fire on my skin.
“Now, let’s get everything settled so we can get to work.
” He rubbed his hands together, then pulled a soda from the fridge.
He offered me one as well. I took it, then he grabbed another for himself.
“You can have the master bedroom, top of the stairs and to the right. My room is down the hall.”
I suddenly felt stupid. Of course he and his brothers would each have their own rooms here. After all, he probably stayed here all the time while growing up. How many summers or winters had his family come here?
I grabbed my bag from the base of the staircase and started up the solid timber steps, the heavy oak planks creaking softly beneath my boots.
As I reached the upper landing, the true layout of the cabin opened up below.
It was designed with a magnificent split-level loft, the polished pine railings looking directly down onto the great room and the massive stone fireplace.
Following his directions, I turned right and pushed open the heavy wood doors to the master bedroom.
A soft gasp escaped my lips. The room was breathtaking.
One entire wall was floor-to-ceiling glass, framing a postcard-perfect view of jagged Longs Peak in the distance, cutting into the blue sky.
In the center of the room sat a massive king-sized bed made from rough-hewn log posts.
It was piled high with thick, plush down comforters and a heavy wool blanket in a classic Pendleton pattern.
A small stone fireplace was built into the corner, almost an identical miniature of the one downstairs, with a neat stack of cedar logs waiting beside it.
The air up here smelled faintly of dried lavender and rich wood. It felt deeply historic but completely luxurious at the same time.
I could imagine myself being here a century ago with no power, no internet, no outside world. I could totally lose myself in a place like this.
I unzipped my bag and began tossing a few thick flannel shirts and sweaters into an empty drawer in the dresser.
Looking around at the paintings and photos that hung carefully on the walls, I noticed a couple of images of three young, troublemaking boys fishing at a nearby lake.
The history of the Mylonas family practically seeped out of the wood.
How nice must it have been growing up in a place like this, I thought, smoothing my hand over the rough log bedpost. This wasn’t just a rental. This was a home filled with childhood memories, scraped knees, and winter mornings. And right now, I was in the middle of it.
A sudden, heavy swooshing sound from down the hall snapped me out of my thoughts.
“Everything okay down there?” I called out, stepping back into the open loft corridor.
Rick was just walking out of a room at the far end of the hallway, dusting off his hands.
He’d already dropped his own bag in what was clearly his designated space.
He looked up, his blue eyes locking onto me across the open expanse of the loft, a relaxed, easy smile rewriting the tension on his face.
“Just making sure the water heater is fully fired up,” he said, his deep voice echoing pleasantly against the high vaulted ceilings. He walked along the balcony toward me, cracking open his soda with a sharp hiss. “What do you think? Does the master suite live up to your standards?”
“It’s incredible,” I said, leaning my forearms against the pine railing overlooking the downstairs as he stopped right next to me.
He was close enough that our shoulders brushed, a subtle electric current humming through the fabric of my sweater.
“Your family is really lucky to have a place like this.”
He took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze dropping to my lips for a heavy, fleeting second before he looked back down at the great room below.
“We are,” he murmured, his voice softening with a rare touch of nostalgia.
“We spent every Christmas here when we were kids. Dad would build a fire so hot we’d have to open the windows, even if there was a blizzard outside.
We’d go sledding just out there.” He pointed out the large windows.
“There’s a perfect hill.” He turned his head to look at me, the roguish executive spark returning to his eyes.
“But nostalgia won’t beat Leonard Whistler.
You ready to go make something that will have him eating our dust? ”
“More than ready.” I smiled, my heart doing that dangerous little flutter again as I raised my soda can to him.
“Let’s get to work,” he said, turning toward the stairs.