Chapter 36
thirty-six
Later—much later—they finally got serious about washing off the paint. It was stubborn, clinging to the creases of their skin, to the lines of his scars. He scrubbed at his chest with a washcloth, frowning when it wouldn’t come completely clean.
“Where did you get the body paint?” he asked, inspecting the gold still embedded in the ridges of his palm.
“Johanna.”
He froze, and the look of sheer disgust that crossed his face had her bursting into laughter.
“It’s not funny, Magnolia. I shouldn’t have asked. Now I have an image of Walker and Jo…” He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head hard as if trying to dislodge the thought.
She sucked in a breath and swallowed her giggles, wiping away a tear. “I bet they’re pretty kinky.”
“No. Jesus. Don’t put those pictures in my head.”
He looked so genuinely horrified, she decided to take pity on him.
“Okay, okay.” She stepped toward him and dragged her hands up over his chest. “I’ll stop teasing. Jo said the paint was left over from a fall festival where she did face painting to raise money for the local animal shelter.”
His shoulders relaxed. “I forgot she did that.”
“You should see your face right now.” She couldn’t help grinning at him. “All horrified at the thought of Walker and Johanna getting creative with body paint.”
“I work with them every day,” he grumbled, rinsing the last traces of gold from his arms. “See them at breakfast. Sit across from them at dinner. They’re like… my parents.”
“And now you’ll never look at them the same way again.” She reached around him to shut off the water, pressing her body against his back. “Especially when Johanna asks you to pass the honey.”
He groaned. “You’re evil.”
“You love it.” She grabbed a towel and wrapped it around herself, watching as Anson stepped from the shower. Water ran in rivulets down his chest, following the paths of his scars like rivers cutting through a landscape.
“I do love it,” he admitted, reaching for his own towel. “I love everything about you.”
The simple admission, delivered so matter-of-factly, made her heart stutter. This was what she’d been missing in Florida—this raw, unfiltered honesty. No cameras, no audience, no performance.
“Even when I put disturbing images in your head?”
“Even then.” He tucked his towel around his waist and pulled her close, dropping a kiss on her damp forehead. “Though I might need therapy. More therapy,” he amended, and released her. “Go get dressed while I try to do something with this.” He motioned to his face.
His beard was wild right now, still flecked with gold paint and sleep-rumpled despite their shower.
She reached up and ran her fingers through it, shaping it slightly. “Do you have to? I like the untamed mountain man look.”
“That’s not what you said last week when you threatened to cut it off while I was sleeping.”
“That was before I knew how good it feels against certain... sensitive areas.” She flashed him a wicked smile that made his eyes darken.
“Magnolia Rowe,” he rumbled, “if you don’t get out of this bathroom right now, we’re never making it to Christmas breakfast.”
She laughed and slipped past him, gathering her scattered clothes from the floor.
Most were unwearable—stained with gold paint or wrinkled beyond repair.
She rummaged through her dresser drawers, pulling out clean leggings and a soft green sweater that brought out the color of her eyes.
And then, just because she wanted to, she wrapped his flannel around her and breathed in his scent.
She perched on the edge of his bed, the sheets tangled from their earlier activities, and ran her fingers through her damp hair. Something about wearing his clothes felt more intimate than the sex they’d just had in the shower. More possessive. More permanent.
His phone buzzed against the nightstand, skittering across the wooden surface with each ring.
She glanced at it in surprise. She’d never heard it ring before; in fact, most of the time she forgot he even had it.
Bramble raised his head from where he was stretched out in front of the door, ears lifting, head cocked like, “Are you going to answer that?”
“Anson? Your phone.”
No response.
She scooped up the phone and went to the closed bathroom door. A razor buzzed on the other side. She reached for the knob, but hesitated. Were they in the barging into the bathroom part of their relationship?
No.
She backed away from the door and set the phone down where she’d found it. She’d just let the call go to voicemail…
But, as far as she knew, the only people who had his number were the men of Valor Ridge.
What if it was an emergency? Like something wrong with the kittens or—
She lunged for the phone and answered without looking at the screen. “Hello?”
A long pause. “This isn’t Anson.” A man’s voice, gruff but not hostile. Definitely not one of the Ridge guys.
She pulled the phone away from her ear and looked at the ID. It read, “Dad.”
Shit.
Anson’s father was calling on Christmas morning. The same father he’d mentioned in his letters but never talked about here. The same father who she’d assumed was no longer living, given how Anson always wrote of him in the past tense.
She jabbed the speaker button. “Uh, hi. No, I’m Maggie. Anson’s... in the shower.” She winced. Oversharing with the man’s father first thing in the morning was definitely not on her Christmas wishlist.
“Ah.” Another pause, then: “This is Wendell. His father.”
“I figured. Caller ID said ‘Dad.’ Unless there’s another dad I don’t know about.” She laughed nervously, immediately regretting the joke.
To her surprise, Wendell let out a dry chuckle. “Just the one, far as I know. Maggie, you said? You his girlfriend?”
The question took her aback. Was she? They hadn’t exactly put a label on things last night. “I’m... yes. Maggie Rowe.”
“The one from the letters.”
Her heart skipped. “He told you about me?”
“Some. Not much.” Another pause. “Just called to wish him a Merry Christmas.”
Something in his voice caught her attention—a hesitation, a note of uncertainty beneath the gruff exterior. This wasn’t a casual call. This mattered to him.
“I’m sure he’ll appreciate that.” She glanced at the bathroom door, still closed. “He should be out soon, if you want to wait.”
“That’s alright. I can call back later.” But he didn’t hang up. “So. Maggie. What do you do?”
“I build things. I have a TV show—well, I did. It’s called Magnolia Builds.” She shifted on the bed, tucking her legs beneath her. “I teach people how to create and renovate their own spaces.”
“TV, huh?” Interest sparked in his voice. “I’ve been working on some built-ins for my living room. Nothing fancy, but I wanted something sturdy.”
“What kind of wood are you using?”
“Oak. Got a good deal from a buddy who had some rough-cut boards sitting around.”
“Solid choice. Harder to work with than pine, but it’ll last forever.”
“That’s what I figured.” His voice warmed fractionally. “Working on the joinery now. Not sure I’ve got the miters right on the corner shelves.”
Maggie leaned back against the pillows, settling in. “Miters can be tricky. You using a compound miter saw?”
“Yep. Table saw for the straight cuts.”
“Measure twice, cut once? Or are you more of a wing-it type?”
That earned her a full laugh, rusty like it didn’t get much use. “Try to measure, but sometimes the wood has other ideas.”
“Oh God, don’t I know it. I once had to redo an entire bookcase on camera because I rushed the measurements. The director kept the cameras rolling while I cursed under my breath and started over. They used it in the final cut—said it made good television.”
“Sounds like my kind of show.” He chuckled again. “Most of these home shows make it look too easy. Like there’s never a board that warps or a screw that strips.”
“Or a drill bit that breaks halfway through.”
“Or a level that lies.”
She grinned, recognizing the same dry humor Anson sometimes showed. “Exactly. I try to keep it real. Show when things go wrong. People appreciate that.”
“They ought to.” He paused, and she heard him take a breath. “So you’re in Montana now? With Anson?”
“Yes.”
“It’s good he’s got someone. He’s had a rough time of it.”
Maggie tightened the flannel around her. “He’s special. Worth every rough patch.”
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “He is.”
The bathroom door opened, and Anson emerged in a cloud of steam, a towel wrapped around his hips, his beard now tamed, and his hair combed back from his face. When he saw her with the phone, he froze.
“Oh, here he is now,” she told Wendell, then mouthed, “Your dad,” and held out the phone.
Something flickered across his face—not quite anger, not quite pain—and his jaw tightened as he accepted the phone from her. He took it off speaker and raised it to his ear. “Dad.”
She watched the transformation happen right before her eyes. The relaxed, open Anson who’d made love to her with such abandon shut down completely. His shoulders stiffened, his expression went blank, and even his voice lost all inflection.
“Yeah, Merry Christmas to you, too.” He turned slightly away from her, like he was trying to keep the conversation private. “No, I’m fine... Just working. Ranch keeps us busy... No, nothing special.”
The stiltedness of it made her stomach clench. This wasn’t how people who loved each other talked. This was the voice of someone forcing themselves through an obligation.
“Sounds good... Yeah... Thanks.” He hung up, set the phone down carefully, and didn’t turn around immediately.
“He seems nice,” she ventured. “We were talking about the shelves he’s building.”
“He would’ve liked that.” Anson’s voice remained flat. “He always wants to talk about projects. Never much else.”
“You talked about your dad a lot in your letters,” she said slowly, watching his back. “But I assumed he had passed away.”
He finally turned to her, his face a careful mask. “Sometimes I think that would be easier.”