Chapter Three
Ruby
I WOKE TO THE SMELL of coffee and the knowledge that I'd royally screwed up my revenge plan.
The guest room was too comfortable—plush bed, soft sheets, morning light streaming through windows that overlooked snow-covered pines. Everything in Gil's cabin was perfect. Expensive. A reminder that he had everything while I had nothing.
I sat up, pulse racing. What the hell had I been thinking?
Revenge, that's what. Make him fall, destroy him publicly, make him feel a fraction of what I'd felt watching him build his empire on my family's bones.
Except he'd stopped. In the hot tub, when I'd been ready to seal the deal and move my plan forward, he'd pulled back. Said he wanted me "completely here." Brought up the age gap like it mattered.
Which meant... what? That he actually cared whether I was emotionally present? That he wasn't just looking for an easy weekend hookup?
That couldn't be right. Gil Pruitt was a developer. A man who'd bought my family's lodge and turned it into his personal luxury playground. He wasn't supposed to have a conscience.
But the way he'd looked at me last night. The way he'd made me come apart with his mouth and then stopped himself from taking what I was offering. That wasn't playboy behavior. That was...
No. I couldn't think about that. Couldn't let myself see him as anything other than the enemy.
I threw off the covers and padded to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. My reflection looked tired—green eyes slightly bloodshot, auburn hair a disaster, freckles standing out against pale skin.
Focus, Ruby. You didn't come this far to lose your nerve now.
I pulled on the jeans I'd worn yesterday and found a cream cable-knit sweater in my overnight bag, pulled my hair into a French braid over one shoulder, and opened the bedroom door.
Coffee's rich scent hit me immediately, making my mouth water. I followed it toward the kitchen and stopped short.
Gil stood at the stove, his back to me. Joggers slung low on his hips, deep green flannel shirt with sleeves rolled up, hair damp from a shower. He flipped something in a pan—eggs, from the smell—moving through his kitchen with easy confidence.
Heat pooled low in my belly before my brain could catch up. My skin prickled with awareness, the urge to touch him nearly overwhelming.
Stop it. He's the enemy. Remember that.
Except my traitorous body didn't seem to care what my brain remembered.
"Coffee's fresh," Gil said without turning around. "Mugs are in the cabinet to your right."
I poured myself a cup, wrapped both hands around it, and leaned against the counter. Silence stretched between us—not comfortable, but loaded. Heavy with everything we'd almost done last night, everything that remained unfinished.
"Did you sleep well?" he asked, finally turning to look at me.
"No." The word came out sharper than I intended. "You?"
"Not at all." His eyes met mine, and something electric passed between us before he looked away. "Hungry?"
"Sure."
He plated food for both of us—scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, buttered toast. Set everything on the small dining table by the windows.
We sat across from each other, and I tried not to notice how the flannel stretched across his shoulders, how the morning light caught the salt-and-pepper in his hair, how the stubble on his jaw made him look rugged instead of unkempt.
Stop. Noticing.
I ate mechanically, tasting nothing. Every time our eyes met, electricity sparked between us. Every accidental brush of our knees under the table made my breath catch.
The tension was unbearable.
"Ruby, about last night—" he started.
"Let's go see the property." I cut him off, pushing back from the table. "You promised me a tour."
His jaw tightened. "We should probably talk about—"
"I didn't spend every penny I had to sit around your cabin making awkward small talk.
" I carried my plate to the sink, rinsed it with quick movements that kept my hands busy.
The financial reality crashed over me again—every penny, gone, nothing left for gas or ingredients or rent.
My chest constricted. "Show me what you've built, Gil. I want to see it all."
A long moment passed. Then he said, "All right. Give me five minutes to grab a coat."
BY MID-MORNING, WE were trudging through snow-covered paths, Gil pointing out renovations and upgrades while I cataloged it all for ammunition.
The spa building gleamed with new construction—heated pool sending steam into the cold air, hot tubs, treatment rooms with mountain views.
I ran my fingers across smooth tile, testing the heat radiating from the pool, needing to touch and understand the space the way I always did.
The tile was warm, professionally installed.
"We source all our spa products locally," Gil explained. "Montana-made soaps, lotions, essential oils. Trying to support the regional economy."
Of course he was. Probably wrote it off as a tax deduction while patting himself on the back for being so generous.
But damn it, the attention to detail was impressive. The way he'd positioned the treatment rooms to overlook the mountains. The geothermal heating system he explained with genuine enthusiasm. The local artwork on the walls.
Stop being impressed. Remember what he took from you.
We moved on to the guest cabins—twelve of them scattered through the pines, each with private hot tubs and floor-to-ceiling windows.
Gil unlocked one that was vacant and gestured me inside.
The space was gorgeous—designer furnishings, luxury linens, a kitchen stocked with local coffee and treats, a bathroom with heated floors and a soaking tub.
"Cabins ranging from cozy one-bedrooms to family-sized layouts sleeping up to ten," Gil said from the doorway. "We wanted to create spaces where people could actually connect, not just pass through."
Connect. Right. While paying five hundred dollars a night to pretend they were rugged mountain people for a weekend.
But the cabins were beautiful. Thoughtfully designed.
Not cookie-cutter luxury but each one slightly different, fitted to its location among the pines.
I hated that I noticed. Hated that some part of me—the part that had once dreamed of expanding Flynn's Lodge with Uncle Danny—could see the vision here.
We kept walking—past the new ski runs with their professional snowmaking equipment, past the rental shop with its gleaming gear. Everything was perfect. Professional. Exactly what wealthy tourists wanted.
Everything my family's lodge had never been.
And then I saw him.
Uncle Danny.
Afternoon sun slanted across the mountain as I spotted him maybe a quarter mile away, leading a group of skiers through what looked like a beginner lesson.
Too far to see his face clearly, but I'd recognize that posture anywhere.
The easy way he moved through snow, the patient gestures as he demonstrated technique.
Pain slammed through my chest. My knees went weak. I grabbed the railing of a nearby cabin deck to steady myself, the wood rough and cold under my palm.
That's Uncle Danny. Teaching rich tourists to ski on OUR mountain. Working for HIM.
A memory flashed—Uncle Danny standing in Flynn's Lodge kitchen, flour on his hands from helping me with petit fours for a wedding reception, laughing at some joke. Confident. Happy. Home.
Now he was up there, reduced to an employee on what used to be Flynn land. What used to be ours. What my parents built and loved.
My throat closed. Vision blurred.
I turned away fast, blinking hard against the burn in my eyes.
"You cold?" Gil's voice came from right behind me. "We should probably head back."
"Yeah. Fine. Let's go."
I walked quickly, putting distance between myself and that view of Uncle Danny. My fingers curled into fists inside my pockets. The rage felt good. Clean. Better than the confusion that had been creeping in since last night.
Focus. Finish the plan. Make him pay.
BACK AT THE CABIN, Gil built up the fire while I stood by the windows, arms wrapped around myself. My reflection stared back at me—small, pale, lost in his oversized cabin and his oversized life. Completely broke with no plan for next week except the revenge I was failing to execute.
"Here." He appeared behind me, holding out a dark gray sweater. "You're shivering."
I shouldn't take it. Shouldn't accept anything from him.
But I was cold, and it looked soft, and some traitorous part of me wanted to be wrapped in his scent.
I pulled it on. The fabric swallowed me—sleeves past my fingertips, hem falling to mid-thigh. Cedar and smoke surrounded me, made my head spin.
"Better?" he asked.
I turned to face him. He was close now, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Close enough to see the scar cutting through his left eyebrow, the stubble darkening his jaw, the way his pupils dilated slightly when he looked at me.
"I can't figure you out," he said quietly. "One minute you're kissing me, the next you're running. What are you afraid of?"
My heart hammered. "Maybe I don't know what I want."
"I think you know exactly what you want." His hand came up to trace my jawline. "You're just scared to take it."
Good question. One I couldn't answer without blowing everything.
I pushed up on my toes and kissed him.
He froze for half a second. Then his hands found my waist, pulled me against him, and kissed me back with an intensity that stole my breath.
This. This was what I needed. Physical. A way to get back on track with the plan.
Except nothing about kissing Gil Pruitt felt simple.
His mouth demanded, claimed, as though he'd been thinking about this since last night. I responded in kind, my hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him down to me. When his tongue swept against mine, a needy sound escaped my throat.
Part of the plan. Stay focused.