Chapter 2
LAUREL
The guest room is surprisingly clean for a bachelor’s cabin.
At least I can tell he tried.
There’s a quilt folded at the foot of the bed, a pine dresser with nothing on top but a doily and a lamp, and a recently Windexed window that looks out over the side pasture. I can just see the corner of Riot's paddock and the run-in shed silvering in the late afternoon light.
I begin unpacking, starting with my clothes. Panties and bras in the top drawer. T-shirts and tanks in the second, and jeans down below. I hang a couple of flannels, some nice button-downs, and other tops in the closet, arranged by sleeve length and color.
Then I remove all of my travel pouches from my bag.
I have four of them, and I line them up across the dresser in the order I've kept them in since I was a teen—pink, blue, green, clear.
Which is body, face, hair, emergency…respectively.
I move the emergency pouch, which includes pain meds, a sewing kit, my phone charger, and a handful of other things that might be useful into the drawer of the nightstand next to my bed.
I take the rest to the small bathroom that’s right next to my room. Pink goes to the left of the sink. Blue on the right. Green up on the shelf near the mirror. My best friends, Lark and Lyla, always give me a hard time about it. But it’s a system that works.
A lot of things didn't survive my divorce. The house. A version of myself I'm still hunting for with a flashlight. But the pouches, they survived. I mean, I’m nothing without my organizational skills. You don't throw out systems that have carried you through the worst times of your life.
Suddenly, there’s a clang of metal and a low curse down the hall, where Beck Aldridge is making dinner.
Cast iron clatters on wood, and there’s the rush of water from a faucet. And every few minutes, more soft thumps and hissed curses fly—the bad ankle, probably getting bumped as he moves around.
I go back to my bedroom and study myself in the mirror.
I look exactly like a woman who drove for way too many hours today.
My hair is a mess. My tank top has a coffee stain I must’ve missed from when I stopped for a pick-me up at that gas station outside Grand Junction.
My eyes are tired and any lipstick I started with has worn off leaving me paler than usual. It doesn’t help my RBF, either.
But it’s fine. I'm not here to win any beauty contests.
So why am I changing my top?
It can’t be for my new boss. The one my brother told me to keep my wits about me when around.
When Maverick described him, he said the guy was as cocky as a two-peckered billy goat. Even before he went off to Hollywood. And all that time on movie sets only put more fuel on that fire.
He said the man had left a trail of broken hearts from one coast to the other—every set, every location. He knows the women in Hollow Peak still talk about him, too.
I'd asked if I needed to be worried.
He'd said, no…that Beck would never do anything I didn’t want him to.
“I just don't trust what you're gonna want after a month with him.”
Which is a hell of a thing to send your sister off with.
Now, being here for about an hour…I see what he means. Mostly.
I still have no idea what he meant about my wants…I have no intention of doing anything here in Hollow Peak besides cashing a paycheck.
But my throat goes a little tight as I swallow that down.
Beck is a lot hotter than I wanted him to be. Older than I pictured. Though I’ve always been more drawn to men with experience out in the world. Who’ve lived a bit. And that gray in his sideburns only enhances that allure.
Stop it. He is not alluring.
He’s charming.
And he flirts the way most people breathe. It’s more like a reflex. He probably flirts with everybody, from grandmothers to cute little babies.
It doesn't mean anything.
I brush my hair and put it back in a casual bun, roll my shoulders, and head down the hall. Because if I keep thinking about this, I'll start auditing every decision I've made in the last year and I’m not equipped for that tonight.
I don't know what I was expecting as I walk into the kitchen. Maybe a bunch of to-go containers, with one plate and a sad lone fork. A fridge full of four kinds of beer and no actual food besides condiments.
Instead, I’m greeted with a fully functioning workspace—open and warm from the oven, butcher-block counters worn soft at the edges, a deep farmhouse sink with a window over it that looks out at the last of the sun.
Lots of pots and pans hang on a wrought iron rail.
There’s a spice rack with bottles that seem used, and even a basil plant on the sill that’s thriving.
And there's Beck.
He's at the stove with his back half-turned, flipping what I believe is pita bread, as the flames char it. His weight is cocked off the bad ankle. His hat's gone, leaving his dark hair sticking up around his head as if he ran a hand through it a couple of times, then called it a day.
"Where’d you learn to cook?" I ask, walking in, then leaning on a barstool at the island.
He glances over and the grin is instantaneous, like it was loaded and waiting. "Self-taught. Craft services and fast-food for shows got old fast. I started making meals ahead of time, if I could. Or I just cooked when I had free moments."
I nod, impressed. “What are you making?”
He tosses a charred pita on a plate next to him. "In the oven I have one-pot Mediterranean chicken and rice. I had some chicken already marinating in the fridge."
“Never expected a stunt-rider to make Mediterranean food. Awfully fancy.”
“I have many talents.” He turns and winks, then puts the plate of pita bread on the countertop of the island.
I shake my head. The man doesn’t stop, does he.
"The main dish will take another ten minutes. Have some bread and homemade hummus." He gestures to a bowl of dip and hands me a small plate.
He keeps surprising me.
I spoon some hummus on the dish and grab some pita. I tear a more manageable piece then dip it in, aware of him watching me the whole time. I take a bite and…wow…the pita is warm and the hummus creamy. It’s delicious.
“Um, this is really good. Like better than in most restaurants.”
His smile gets super wide. “Yeah?” I swear there’s even a bit of pink on his cheeks.
“You may have to wrestle it out of my hand, if you want any.”
“You can eat as much as you want, but I’d wrestle with you any day.” There’s that flirty grin again.
This time my smile gets out before I can snatch it back.
Dammit.
"You didn't have to dress up, either," he adds, eyes traveling up and down my body.
I shrug. "I thought a clean shirt would be appropriate for dinner."
“Then I'm honored, Ms. Dempsey.”
I roll my eyes as he washes up some of the dishes he’s already used.
Suddenly, he turns and snaps his fingers. “Shit. I have some tzatziki I made this morning.” He pulls it out of the fridge and grabs a serving spoon.
As he plops it in the bowl and turns back around, he pivots awkwardly on the busted ankle. His knee buckles at the weight and his hand goes for the counter to hold on. But when the bowl hits the counter, the spoon flips up, sending yogurt sauce all over him, the island, and the floor.
And he’s still trying to catch his balance.
I'm there in a second, a hand around his arm, steadying him.
He hisses through his teeth. "Son of a—"
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah. I just…" His body is leaning against mine and I don't entirely trust his ankle to keep him upright.
"You’re gonna sit down." I lead him toward a bar stool, but he’s trying to resist.
"I'm fine."
"Mr. Aldridge, please."
"Only if you call me Beck."
I make a frustrated sound in the back of my throat. "Sit down, Beck."
"Only for a moment,” he says, sliding onto the seat with a crooked smile. “To get my bearings. Then I’ll go change my shirt.”
My hand is still on his solid bicep.
And he notices. His eyes drop to it and I feel the muscle flex under the soft flannel before his gaze moves back up.
I take my hand back like I touched the stove.
“I'll be right back.” He clears his throat and carefully finds his footing. "Unless, you’d want to help me change.”
I level my eyes at him. “I’ll help by cleaning up, here.”
He rolls his teeth over his lower lip and tips his head. "Kind of you, Ms. Dempsey."
He limps off down the hall and I find the spray cleaner and paper towels in the cabinet under the sink. I tackle the mess as my heart beats a little harder than it should.
In barely five minutes, he comes back through the kitchen pulling a black T-shirt over his head.
It’s bunched at his shoulders, and his arms are still up, and for maybe two long seconds, I’m staring at Beck’s bare torso.
He’s broad and sun-bronzed all over, as if he’s often bare-chested under the sun.
There’s a scar on his right pectoral, thin and clean—the kind a doctor leaves.
And another one across the bottom of his ribs on the left side, longer and rougher.
A dusting of dark hair covers a well-defined stomach and highlights the cut of muscle that dips into the waistband of his jeans.
Oooh, boy, I’ll be picturing that every time I close my eyes.
I lick my lips.
The shirt drops as his head clears the neck hole, and he tugs it down.
He catches me looking.
One brow arches and the corner of his mouth curls up a notch.
I quickly turn to toss the used paper towels into the bin. “Done.”
He huffs a quiet laugh as he passes behind me and gets two plates down from the cabinet.
Then he goes to another cabinet with glasses. “How about a drink? Wine? Beer? Sweet tea?”
“I’ll take tea, please.”
He starts pouring from a pitcher. “Can you take the pot out of the oven? I have to admit that was tough to lift with the unwieldy cast iron.”
I nod and grab the potholders. He gets himself a beer from the fridge, then tosses a trivet onto the countertop.
I manage to put the pot down and he opens it to stir. It makes the whole kitchen smell amazing.