Chapter 2
When his wiperscouldn’t keep up with the onslaught of snow, and the tires spun with no traction, Booker knew it was time to give up. He’d been lucky enough to grab the last flight before the airports shut down. He’d even convinced the employee who was closing the rental car office to fill out the paperwork and get him on the road.
But here’s where my luck ends.
East Coasters thought winters were rough, but they’d never seen one in the Tetons. Snow dropped in a steady sheet, making the roads impassable. He had a trunk full of groceries, and he’d have to abandon most of them.
After he cut the engine, he shoved his hands into gloves and plonked a wool hat on his head, tugging it down over his ears. Then, he grabbed his duffel and as many grocery bags as he could carry and got out of the car.
Wind whipped his cheeks, the sting making it hard to keep his eyes open.
A man could die out here.
He was exhausted, and all he wanted was to crash on his pillowtop mattress with his down comforter. He wouldn’t even bother making a fire. He’d drop into a deep sleep.
And enjoy the perfect solitude.
He’d texted Marcus to let him know he’d be taking a few days off, but that his number one priority was Ginty. Which meant—after he stopped playing phone tag with his client and actually had a conversation—he’d be free from messages, calls, and the crowded, slushy streets of New York City.
Through the white-out blur, his cabin appeared, giving him that last boost of energy he needed to get inside. He’d deal with the rest of his groceries in the morning.
A heap of snow blocked the doorway, so he had to set everything down and use his hands to clear it. Fucking hell. But he got to work, imagining that comfortable bed and the warmth of his comforter.
By the time he’d carved out a passageway for himself, he was sweating, and his fingers were numb. He pulled out his key, pushed open the door, and dropped his bag. Since there was no heat—from the vents or the fireplace—he left the groceries right there on the floor. He untied his boots and kicked them off. The blizzard hid the moonlight, but it was a clear shot straight to the bedroom.
As he headed there in the dark, he yanked open the buttons of his jeans and kicked them off. And then, finally, at the foot of his bed, he shrugged out of his coat, peeled off his sweater and long-sleeve shirt, and stepped out of his boxer briefs. Jesus, it was cold. He couldn’t wait to get under that thick, down comforter.
As always, he was glad he’d left the bed neatly made. He liked this place to feel like a refuge with clean sheets and no clutter.
But when he pulled back the covers, something didn’t feel quite right. It didn’t feel like the bed was neatly made. He was beyond exhausted, though. So, whatever it was, he’d deal with it in the morning.
For now, it was lights out.
* * *
The plane jolted, and Lorelei Calloway reached for the armrests.
I hate turbulence.
But wait. This isn’t an airplane. No, she was on a yacht. With choppy seas.
And then, she bounced so hard it startled her awake.
Her eyelids flew open, and she jerked up, but she couldn’t see anything in the darkness.
She took a second to orient herself.
I’m in the cabin.
I’m safe.
And yet… The hairs at the back of her neck went up. She sensed a presence.
Tension plucked her nerves. Her exposed foot was ice cold, so she pulled on the comforter. It didn’t budge, as if a heavy weight was resting on top of it.
Fear ripped down her spine.
Holy shit.
Someone’s in this bed with me.
Her fear was confirmed when she heard an exhalation of pure satisfaction.
She leaped out of bed, feeling for the flashlight she kept on the nightstand. Her hands closed around the cold metal, fingers not cooperating as she tried to flick it on. “Who’s there? Who the hell is here?”
“What the fuck?” a deep, growly voice asked.
Fingers shaking, she finally got the switch to move. The narrow beam of light hit the wall, zigzagged across the bedroom, and landed on her bed.
Oh, my God!
What should have been an empty expanse of sheets and blankets was taken up by a man. There’s a stranger in my bed.
She jerked the light up to his face to find him staring at her. “Get out,” she shrieked. “Get out of my cabin right now.” She grabbed her phone but remembered there was no service thanks to the blizzard.
When he sat up, the duvet fell, exposing a large, bare chest. Was he naked? Shielding his eyes with a hand, he shouted, “Who the fuck are you?”
Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my God.
There’s a man in my bed.
Her scalp bristled, and her heart leaped into her throat. “I live here.” She knew she sounded hysterical but come on. How could she protect herself?
“No, you don’t.” He leaned over, patting the floor. “I own this place.”
What if he was reaching for a weapon? She dropped to her knees, swept her hand under the bed, and whisked out the bat she’d stashed there. When she popped back up, she brandished it at him. “Out, motherfucker.”
Totally unfazed, he stuck his hands inside a sweater and threw it on over his head.
“I’m serious.” Her hands shook and sweat broke out on her forehead. “Get out of here or I’m calling the police.”
“That’d be great. I’d appreciate it. They don’t like squatters around here.”
Why was he being so calm about all this? And also, that was a very expensive cashmere sweater. “I’m sorry if you got caught out in the snowstorm, but you can’t stay here.”
“Sweetheart, I’m not going anywhere.” He eyed her with such resolve that fight-or-flight kicked in.
If there wasn’t a storm, if she wasn’t thirteen miles from town, she’d run for her life.
“You realize I can grab you by the scruff of your neck and toss you out, right?” he asked.
She slammed the bat on the mattress, just an inch away from his thigh. “Try me, fucker.”
“Okay, Hellcat. You don’t believe it’s my place? How about the Hermès body gel in the shower? Or the size thirteen running shoes in the broom closet in the kitchen?”
Hm. She had noticed those things. And that shower gel was so amazing, she’d used it all up. “So? You could’ve been snooping around while I was sleeping. Maybe you dated the person that owns this place.”
“Jesus Christ.” He fell back onto the pillow. “I just want to sleep.”
“Even if you do own the cabin, you don’t get to come in here whenever you feel like it. It’s not my problem you got caught out in the storm. I’m paying good money to rent this place. Now, get out.”
He stared up at a ceiling he couldn’t see in the dark. “I don’t rent this cabin out.”
“Well, obviously, you do.” She lifted an arm before dropping it to her side. “My money’s going somewhere.”
He sighed, hiking himself up on an elbow. He looked exhausted. “Listen, I don’t give a damn what your story is. I just want you out of here.”
“I’m paying twenty-five thousand dollars a month for this place. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Twenty-five grand, huh?” He pretended to be impressed. “This place is worth that much?”
Rude.“And for my privacy, yes. It’s worth it.” She’d noticed it didn’t have the usual features of other places she’d rented. No folder of things to do and restaurants that delivered. Or a welcome basket. But she hadn’t cared about any of that. It gave her all the luxury and privacy she needed.
“Well, I don’t know who bamboozled you, but that money’s not going into my bank account.” He looked at the flashlight and made the gimme motion with his hand.
“Not a chance, buddy.”
“Technically, it’s mine. But I’m getting out of my bed to find my boxers, so unless you want my dick and balls swinging in the wind, you’ll hand it over.”
The whole situation was unnerving, and she wasn’t about to let down her guard. “You’ve got nothing I haven’t seen.” Moving around the bed, she flashed the light onto the floor and watched him scoop up his black boxer briefs and jeans.
She looked away as he got dressed, the shush of fabric the only sound in the cold room. She needed her robe and her slippers, but she didn’t dare give him the advantage by losing her focus.
Once he was dressed, he headed out of the room. Oh, thank God. He’s leaving.
“Look, an owner doesn’t have the right to take shelter in a rental property.” It had to be in the contract somewhere. She set the light and bat down to throw on her robe and slide her feet into her slippers. Then, she hurried into the living room to make sure he left.
But she found him on the couch. “What’re you doing?”
He had his eyes closed, his elbow cocked, and the back of his hand on his forehead. “I’m sleeping.”
“Not in my cabin, you’re not.”
“It’s my cabin. And yes, I am.” His tone was growing impatient. “It’s minus twenty outside, the roads are closed, the airport’s closed, and my car’s probably buried under snow right now.” He pulled his parka up to his chin. “I’m sleeping. And if you don’t like that, you can make a plan of your own.”
She’d always thought this place had unusually big furniture, but seeing him stretched out like that and taking up all the space made her understand why.
If this is his place.
He wasn’t giving off creepy man or serial killer vibes but that didn’t mean much.
What do I do?It wasn’t like she could drag him out the door. And she sure as hell couldn’t close her eyes knowing a big, muscular man was under the same roof. If only she had Wi-Fi so she could talk to her manager about the situation. Maybe she’d given her the wrong address?
Wait. He’s not a fan, is he?
While she’d stayed away from town and avoided delivery drivers, she’d run into people on her walks. The paparazzi could have found out where she was living. They were relentless about things like that.
Dread slithered through her when she recalled the picnic she’d taken to the lake. That guy who’d kept watching her. She’d been so freaked out, she’d packed up and left.
But had he recognized Lorelei Calloway, the singer? Or was he just creeping on a woman alone in the mountains? God, what if he’d been scoping her out this whole time? Maybe he had a deer blind and watched her through a telescopic lens. Did he peer through her windows?
She knew from a decade of experience that unhinged people came in all forms.
But wait. She’d dyed her hair and given up her signature red lipstick, just so she wouldn’t look like her pop star persona. He couldn’t know it was her. Right? No one would.
“You’re not going to sleep, are you?” His voice was muffled by the coat covering his mouth. “Fuck.” He got up abruptly, that big muscular body as agile as a gymnast. “Let’s go.” He strode back into the bedroom and opened the closet door. “Get in here.”
Icy fear grabbed her lungs and squeezed. Was he going to lock her in there?
“Oh, cut it out. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m proving this is my cabin.” He wrested the flashlight from her hand, knelt on the floor, and punched in the code to open the safe. “Okay? We good?”
He pulled out some paperwork, an old watch, and a file folder. For one moment, he stared at the watch, his fingers closing around it. And then, he tossed everything back inside, slammed it shut, and handed her the flashlight.
“How does that prove anything?” she asked.
“No random dude seeking shelter from the storm’s going to know the combination to a safe.”
As he stood, she studied him, trying to pick up threatening energy but failing. Only when she realized he was waiting for her to step aside so he could get out did she finally step back.
“You okay now?” he asked.
She didn’t know what to say. No way could she fall asleep knowing there was a strange man here with her. Even if he did own the place, that didn’t mean he was a good guy.
The man dropped his attitude. “Look, I’ve had a shit day. I’ve been traveling since noon, and all I want to do is crash. I want to sleep on the fucking mattress that I personally carried from the delivery truck to my bedroom because the drivers weren’t allowed to ‘climb stairs,’ and they decided the one step up to my porch was considered a stair. I want to cover my freezing balls in that comforter that cost almost as much as this cabin.”
It was a nice comforter. “What’s the brand?”
Irritation flashed across his features. “Of what?”
“The duvet.”
He sighed. “Frette. Now, can we both go to sleep?”
See, now that was more compelling proof than anything else he’d offered. Only someone who’d bought it would know the designer.
Also, a dangerous man wouldn’t have waited for her to step aside. He wouldn’t go out of his way to make her feel comfortable. But mostly, she didn’t see any other choice but to let him sleep here. So, she gave him a tentative nod.
His stern demeanor didn’t change, but the slight twitch around his eyes clued her in to how relieved he was. Turning, he left her alone in the bedroom that had given her so much peace these last few months.
But now that the terror had downgraded to a milder fear, her instincts were coming back online. Because it wasn’t the body wash, shoes, safe, or the brand of duvet that told her this guy wasn’t a threat. It was her gut. Having worked in an industry filled with predators—hell, she’d been propositioned as a tween—her spidey senses were on point.
“Hey.” The man reappeared in the doorway. “How’d you get in here anyway? There are only two keys, and I have them both.”
Her gaze cut away. Because that drove it home. “I broke in.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “Come again?”
“No, no. It’s not like that. My mana—” Oops. If he knew she had a manager, he’d ask questions. And if he didn’t already know who she was, she wasn’t about to reveal her identity. “I needed a place to go, so a friend rented this cabin. She told me where the key was, but I couldn’t find it. So, I broke the window.” She tipped her head toward the kitchen.
“Huh.” He pulled a set of keys out of his pocket. “Look at that. I didn’t have to break into my own cabin at all. I wonder who should get the bed?” Still, he walked away. She could hear him flopping down on the couch and arranging the coat over himself. “I’m going to have sweet dreams about my cigar cutter that’s in the second drawer to the left of the stove and my stash of Pappy Van Winkle bourbon in the top cabinet over the refrigerator. Both of which I’ll be enjoying tomorrow afternoon in front of a roaring fire.” He exhaled with satisfaction. “Alone.”
Okay, fine. He was the owner.
“Hey, Hellcat?” he called.
She poked her head out of the bedroom. “What?”
“What address did your friend give you?”
“I don’t remember. It was nearly three months ago.”
“You’ve been living in my house for three months?” He popped up. “Did you drink my bourbon?”
“No, of course not. I didn’t use anything that looked like the owner’s personal stash. Just the toilet paper, napkins, and paper towels. Stuff like that.”
He looked horrified. “We have no toilet paper?”
“Relax. Your throne’s intact. I’ve bought more.” In fact, she’d stockpiled it. The fewer deliveries, the less chance someone would figure out who she was.
“Thank you for acknowledging that it is, in fact, my throne.” Lying back down, he closed his eyes, his features relaxing.
It might be a weird observation to make at the moment, but the man was gorgeous. And unbelievably well-built. Even in the sweater, she’d noticed his bulging biceps. Also, judging from his clothes and that fancy watch on his wrist, he was well-off. “I’m open to the suggestion I might’ve got the wrong address.”
“It’s not hard to do out here.”
Oh. She’d expected a snarky comeback. She wasn’t prepared for him to be nice.
“The cabins are far and few between here in the Tetons.” He rolled onto his side, hiking up his knees and resting his cheek on his hand. “Now, go to sleep.”
“Okay, but you keep your hands off me now.” She said it like a joke, but really…
Are you kidding me?How am I supposed to fall asleep with a strange man in the cabin?
“Yeah, there won’t be any of that.” He settled deeper into the leather cushion. “You’re not my type.”
He…
What?
Did he just say I’m not his type?
Of course, he was seeing her at her worst. It was the middle of the night, he’d startled her out of a deep sleep, and she was wearing oversized clothes. Not to mention the coffee stain on her sweatshirt. But she wasn’t an unattractive woman. She was friendly.
Well, maybe a little less friendly after the hits she’d taken this year.
Ugh. Let it go. She’d accepted who she was a long time ago, and she knew she wasn’t Mr. Slick’s type at all. No matter how many stylists and makeup artists worked on her, how expensive her designer clothes and jewelry were, no one had ever called Lorelei Calloway sexy.
She was girl-next-door pretty. She was happy and fun.
But she was no sexpot.
The reminder drove a spike of awareness into her chest, making her body sting.
That’s why Landon chose Cissy. Her former friend was warmer, earthier…raunchier. She gave off lazy days in bed vibes. Meet-me-in-the-bathroom-for-a-blow-job energy.
Cissy was tall and slender—she had a model’s physique. She could throw on jeans and a T-shirt and look chic whereas Lorelei needed the right clothes to dress a body like hers.
I’ve got boobs and a butt.
Stop it. Just stop it right now. What did she care about this stranger’s opinion? He didn’t have to find her attractive. One of them would be gone tomorrow, and they’d never see each other again. For now, she was freezing, and she really shouldn’t be staring at a sleeping man.
She hurried back to the bedroom and dove under the covers. But she was wired and anxious, and there was no way she could fall asleep. Racked with shivers, she curled up like a little pill bug.
When she closed her eyes, she retraced the flashlight’s beam across the stranger’s broad shoulders, the big, round biceps, and the powerful thighs. She’d only ever been with her ex, so she didn’t have experience with other body types. Landon was lean. Scrawny, really, next to this man who took up the entire couch with his tall, muscular frame. And that jaw. He could be a movie star. No, he was an athlete. A hot quarterback.
You’re not my type.
No, she wouldn’t be. A guy like him would date the head cheerleader. The class president. The gorgeous CEO. Together, they’d make a power couple.
She’d once read that girls who grew up without fathers had self-esteem issues. How can you love yourself when your own dad rejected you? Even though she knew the truth now—that her mom had kept her from her dad—it didn’t erase beliefs that were imprinted into the fabric of her soul in childhood.
A melody entered her head. As she lay there, the eight-bar loop playing on repeat, random words popped up.
Imprint. Tattoo.
A child’s eyes. No, a man’s eyes.
Looking for daddy in another man’s eyes.
Yes. Inspiration compelled her to sit up and reach for her guitar. She didn’t want to lose the train of thought, the arrangement, so she started humming, and when her voice splintered the perfect silence of the cabin?—
She remembered.
There’s a man out there. Sleeping.