CHAPTER 40
Evander
I open the door for her, and we step inside. I help her remove her snow gear and she helps me with mine.
I take off my gloves and then hers. I gently pull her balaclava up and off her head, watching all her pretty curls spill over her shoulders. I remove the parka and set the lantern on the floor. I undo her snowsuit, peeling it away from her upper body. Her cheeks are pink from the cold.
I rip off my headlamp, face mask, and beanie, and I see her looking up at me the way she often does. Our eyes lock in a kind of understanding.
I feel the power of it, even if I can’t bring myself to give it a name. But it’s there between us, surrounding us. Phoebe’s pulled the curtain back enough for me to acknowledge it.
She did it the way she seems to do everything—like it’s no big deal, like it’s a simple thing.
She insisted on helping me. Then she stayed out there in the storm until the job was done. She wanted to do her part. She wanted to be at my side.
When she could have—really, she should have—stayed inside and kept herself warm and safe. Phoebe has every right to be shaken up and unsteady after what she’s been through. She has every right to take it easy.
But that’s not who she is.
And now she’s removing my coveralls. In the lantern light, I watch her slender, pretty fingers on the weather-beaten fabric and heavy-duty zipper, and I think maybe, for the first time ever, I’m starting to get it.
The secret Cal knows.
What Finn’s been lucky enough to find twice in his life.
What my dad knew.
And it’s this: the love of a strong woman balances everything out. Softens the rough spots and allows light into the dark places. The right woman sweetens a man’s life, even if that life was pretty damn sweet to begin with.
I place my hand over those capable fingers until they stop moving. Until the softest little smile plays on her pouty, pink mouth.
“What are you doing to me, Phoebe?”
She crinkles her freckled nose. “Unzipping you?”
I laugh softly. “Is that what it’s called? I guess that’s pretty accurate.”
I raise my fingers to her hair, brushing through a few unruly curls. I let my fingertips trace her jawline and lift her pretty little chin.
With all the tenderness I possess, and even though I feel myself trembling with the intensity of whatever’s racing through me, I lower my lips to hers.
Soft and warm. Yielding to me. Perfect under my mouth.
Phoebe.
I pull her into me and cradle her close, kissing her, pouring myself into this kiss in a way that I didn’t think was an option for me. With this kiss, I’m telling her that I may be a selfish and persnickety bastard but I’m willing to try to be something else, something better.
For her.
She relaxes in my embrace, loosens, and melts under my mouth. Her soft little hand reaches up to the nape of my neck and pulls me toward her. That touch. Her touch. I have no idea why, but I would do anything to get more of it.
More of Phoebe.
I can’t lie to myself—it’s cold in here. The fire’s died down and the batteries are dying in both my headlamp and the lantern.
We’re both sprinkled with snow and still half-trapped in weatherproof gear and boots, and it doesn’t matter a good damn.
The kiss gets hotter. Deeper. One of my hands reaches up under her hair to cradle the back of her head, holding her exactly where I want her. The other hand goes to her back, my fingers spanning the whole expanse of her ribs. I lean into her.
Phoebe’s a small woman. She’s a perfect, curvy handful of female. Just the right combination of athleticism and softness.
She lays the flat of her hand on my chest, exploring me, stroking my side, then up to my shoulder and down my upper arm. She makes the sweetest little moan of pleasure, of hunger. Just touching me.
My hand slides down into her snow pants, and I caress her ass.
Only the left side, though, because of her stitches.
Which makes us both laugh. And we pull apart to start stripping off our outerwear in earnest.
“Miss Travis, do you have any fucking idea the level of debauchery we could enjoy my king-sized bed?”
She grins at me, her freckled cheeks round and her eyes sparkling. “You mean in the king-sized bed in your bedroom, the one that has central heating? Maybe with soft flannel sheets?” She wriggles out of her snow pants.
“That’s the one.” I untie my left snow boot and throw it against the door.
“Yes! Bring it on! I want it all, Evander—shameless depravity! Disorderly conduct! Cinnamon toast cereal with two-percent organic milk!”
“Hell yes. That’s an IOU from me to you. And I want a steak and eggs. We can eat in bed.”
“Sign me up!”
I throw off my right boot and rip off my sweater. “And after I’ve thoroughly ravished you… or ravaged… or whatever the fuck the word is, we’ll roll out of bed and move the debauchery to my huge jacuzzi tub, with ten jets and several temperature settings.”
“Ooh, and fluffy towels?” She’s pulling off her boots.
“Fluffy towels and surround sound and a fireplace and hey, can I wash your hair? Is that weird? I want to wash your hair when we’re in the tub together.”
She stands in front of me in her thermal underwear and wool socks, breathing hard. “Fuck yes, you can wash my hair. Pardon my French.”
“Fuck your French, Phoebe.”
I grab her, lift her, and throw her over my left shoulder, one of my hands slapped on the back of her thigh. “You need to start talking dirty to me, and I mean every filthy fucking word you’ve been saving up for a snowy day.”
“Really?”
“There’s a shit ton of snow out there.” With my free hand, I throw open the tarps and carry her into the front room.
Without putting her down, I throw two logs on the fire. Then I sling her around and into my arms. She clasps her hands behind my neck, and I look down at her face upturned face.
And the world stops.
Oh, holy fuck.
Steadfast. Loyal. Funny and sweet. Her golden eyes shine. Her adorable smile widens. And there’s no longer any question in my mind.
Phoebe’s in love with me. It’s not the misguided crush from a woman who doesn’t know what she’s asking for.
This woman—this fully grown, sensual, kindhearted woman—is in love with me, the persnickety bastard who tried his best to warn her away.
I never, ever thought I’d be this guy, but here I am, about to admit it to myself—if she loves me, I’m okay with it.
No. It’s more than that. If Phoebe Travis knows who I am and loves me anyway, then bring it on.
I drop my lips to hers once more and turn, laying her gently on the old rickety couch. Yes, I’d rather have the king-sized sexual playground of my bed. But that’s not an option. So we’ll make do with what we have at this moment.
Each other.
And here’s the hell of it: I’ve never once considered bringing a woman into my bed, into my home, onto Yosemite Ranch. The thought has never even crossed my damn mind.
Until tonight.
Until Phoebe.