Chapter 5
A familiar songwoke Booker up.
He couldn’t place it, so his brain kept processing. He didn’t listen to pop music, but this one was used all the time on social media reels and commercials.
What is it?
But then, the more alarming question hit him: who the hell’ssinging?
He opened his eyes and blinked against the gray light filtering into the freezing cold bedroom.
Ah, right. He wasn’t in his apartment. He was in the cabin.
And that was when it all came rushing back. Why he was there.
Marcus had threatened to fire him.
When he remembered his boss’s tone, his chest tightened. That hard, vicious expression was unlike anything Booker had ever seen from his mentor.
At least when dealing with me.
Man, even during his worst years as a teenager, when he and his friends were absolute hellions, his dad had never talked about kicking him out.
See, there you go again.
Marcus isn’t your dad.
You fell for his game.
The sting of humiliation had him flinging back the covers. Sucker.
It was all just business.
That’s all it ever was.
Fuck, it’s cold. A fleeting thought crossed his mind—why did I wear jeans to bed?—before he remembered the hellcat.
The bat she’d slammed onto the mattress, the fierce determination in her eyes.
She’d awakened to a strange man in her bed.
Strange naked man.
And she hadn’t cowered.
She’d come at him with a bat.
Even though she must’ve been terrified, she’d fought like a warrior. Hopefully, he’d eased her mind enough that she’d fallen asleep. He’d conked out before her, so he didn’t know.
She hadn’t revealed her whole story, but he’d gotten to know her some. Three months was a long time to hide away from the world—no matter what had happened to her. Sure, he felt bad for her, but he also hoped she was singing as she packed.
Because he needed time to himself. First, he had to talk to Ginty. Get the situation worked out before Marcus inserted himself.
Or had his boss already done that? Booker had left town without getting Ginty’s signature. He wouldn’t be surprised to open his phone and see a termination letter from HR.
Fear gripped his spine. If that happened, he’d get a severance package. He wouldn’t be able to touch his clients or the Detroit golfer for a year.
Nope. Not going there.
Nothing’s going to happen until Marcus knows for sure Ginty’s not going to sign.
That buys me some time.
He had at least until the day after Christmas.
Damn, he was glad Hellcat wanted to keep things vague with each other. It was a small world, and if she was in sports at all, she’d recognize his agency, his boss, and his athletes.
He set his feet on the wood floor—Jesus fuck—the cold bled right through his wool socks. He had to get the heat on. A blizzard like this was the reason he’d bought the largest capacity generator and propane tank. Teton winters were rough.
He’d get that done, make some coffee and breakfast, and then figure out what to do about Hellcat. Though, really, what could he do? Without Wi-Fi, she couldn’t find the correct address of the cabin she’d rented. For now, he was stuck with her.
He headed out of the bedroom, stopping cold when he found her dancing.
In her puffy blue robe, fuzzy slippers, and a wool hat with fur earflaps, she was shaking her ass and hopping around as she whisper-sang.
Yeah, he was fucking cold, and yeah, he wanted to start shoveling a path to the shed, but he couldn’t stop watching her.
This woman had taken the worst kind of hit, and yet, look at her. She had a joy as big as the sun radiating out of her.
She might think the people who fucked her over had won something, but she was a powerhouse of a woman. She’d not only recover but she’d kick ass. They’d better watch their backs with this one.
Leaning against the doorframe, he folded his arms over his chest. She didn’t dance like a woman at a club. Her moves were more… choreographed? He wasn’t sure how to describe it, but she was confident, strong, and sexy as fuck.
What was that expression about dancing like nobody’s watching? That was Hellcat.
Except I’m watching, and she doesn’t know it.
Not cool.“Hey.” As he crossed the room to grab the gloves he’d left on the floor, she swung around and gasped.
She clapped a hand to her chest. “Oh, my God. You scared me.”
Their gazes locked, and for one moment, it felt like time stopped. He’d only ever seen her in the dark, her features heavily shadowed from the flashlight. So, it was startling to see her face for the first time. She was…lovely. Dark hair, blue eyes, and pink lips. “Sorry.” He snatched up his gloves to find they’d frozen solid.
“I was trying to warm up.”
“A fire might be more effective.” He tipped his chin toward the big stone hearth.
“Maybe.” She grinned. “But it’s not nearly as fun.”
It would take some time to dig out a path to the generator and even longer for the place to heat up. “I’ll get one started.”
“That would be fantastic. Thank you.”
He glanced at the clean grate. “Either you haven’t made one yet or you’re extremely clean.”
“Yeah, well, about that… I don’t know how.”
“You rented a cabin in the Tetons for the winter, and you don’t know how to make a fire?”
“I didn’t plan on staying this long.” She sounded defensive, but also, a little deflated.
And it pissed him off that he’d made her feel bad about it. “Well, let me show you how.”
“Really?” She joined him at the hearth. “You don’t know how many times I thought about trying, but I didn’t want to risk burning the place down.”
“I appreciate that. Because if you hadn’t opened the flue, you’d have had some problems.” He reached inside for the lever. “See this?” When she came closer, he got walloped by her scent.
It was powdery, feminine, and sweet, and it kicked his arousal into gear.
Fucking hell.
“What’s a flue?” She peered up the chimney, completely unaware that his body had gone haywire from her proximity.
“It’s a duct that brings in oxygen to feed the fire and removes smoke and gasses.” He’d turned brusque. Almost rude. But he couldn’t help it.
Those pink lips parted as she looked up, and her tongue peeked out to lick the bottom one.
Desire churned, heating his blood and making his skin tingle.
His body’s reaction didn’t make sense. Usually, he hooked up with professional women who wore high heels that showcased toned legs and silky blouses and tight skirts that accentuated curves.
But Hellcat wasn’t wearing makeup. Her body was covered with a puffy robe and baggy sweatpants. And she wasn’t telegraphing a sultry invitation.
She sat back on the stone bench. “Show me how you do it?” A hint of chocolate scented her breath.
He shifted the lever, opening the flue. “I hope you prefer dark.” Had she dug through his grocery bags?
“Dark?” When her gaze snapped over to him, she must’ve realized how close they were. She looked a little surprised, but also…her eyelids went a little lazy. Her mouth softened. “Are you talking about the flue?”
“No.” He laughed. “Dark chocolate. I didn’t have time to look through the flavors. All I know is I don’t like milk or white.”
“Oh.” Pink flooded her cheeks, and she wiped the corners of her mouth. “Sorry. I was so hungry. I’ll order you more.”
“Of all the things you found in my grocery bags, you chose the European chocolate caramel bar because you were starving? Why not the eggs? The bread?”
“Well, because I’m not stupid. That was some good stuff.”
That smile tilting the corners of her mouth sent a rush of want through him. It knocked him sideways. Make the fucking fire. “Do you have newspapers or something?”
“Um, no.” She glanced around the living room, her gaze landing on the dining room table. “But I have cardboard boxes.”
He hadn’t noticed before, but it was covered in cellophane-wrapped baskets. “What’s all that?” A stack of boxes lined up against the wall.
“It’s what I’ve been living on.” She said it like she thought it was hilarious, but he could tell it embarrassed her.
“Gift baskets?” The cabin was outside the range for most restaurant and grocery delivery services, but she could easily drive into town for takeaway or weekly shopping.
“Yeah.” She still wouldn’t look at him. “I don’t cook, so… Anyhow, the baskets have been fun.”
“There’s a gourmet store in town. Harley and Lu’s. They have prepared foods.”
She rallied with a smile. “They don’t deliver this far, and I don’t have a car. But also, I’ve had a strict diet most of my life, and I used to watch people eat decadent and fattening foods and wonder what it would be like to have no rules. I mean, to be able to eat whatever I want? Just gorge myself? How fun is that?”
So…religious background? Pageant girl? “I get that. I’m pretty strict, too.” For him, though, it was a habit left over from his hockey days. “Well, I’ve got groceries, so I’ll make us eggs, toast, and bacon.”
“That would be amazing. I mean, some of those are fruit baskets, but mostly, it’s just crackers and olive tapenade. Salami. Cookies. So, the idea of fresh eggs…yum.” She had a dreamy expression that got his attention.
Because it made him think of sex. How she would look if he was licking her?—
You gotta cut this shit out. He got up abruptly to grab some boxes. After stomping them flat, he tore off some pieces and headed back to the stone hearth. “The paper goes under the grate.” He kept a pile of kindling branches in a big basket, so he grabbed some of those. “These go on top.” Against the wall, he’d stacked a mountain of logs. “And then, these.”
She nodded like she was taking mental notes. “So, it’s a whole system. I would’ve just put the logs on and then tried to light them.” She gestured to the stack. “Looks like we’re good through the apocalypse.”
“I like chopping wood. It’s good exercise out here in the middle of nowhere. But yeah, it’ll keep us warm for a few days.” Wait—a few days?That’s not going to happen. She wouldn’t be here that long, and he had to get back to New York. At least, get into town where he had Wi-Fi. He couldn’t think with her in his space…dancing…laughing…smelling all powdery and shit.
He arranged the logs on top of the kindling, lit a match, and watched the cardboard light up. “I don’t know how long it’ll take to dig out a path to the shed, so if this starts to die down, just toss another log on, okay?”
“Okay. Sure.” She watched him as he headed into the kitchen to grab a shovel. “Can I help?”
“You know those grocery bags you were digging through? You can unload them.” He opened the kitchen door to find three to four feet of snow. At least it’s powdery. He was hungry, tired, and worn out from worrying about his career. If he were alone, he’d stuff his face with a roll or something. But he wasn’t. And he needed to get his roommate some heat and hot water.
So, he plunged the shovel into the snow and got to work. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. He liked using different muscles, liked letting his mind wander.
And guess where it went? Right to his career.
Sure, he liked George’s idea of going out on their own, but he learned a lot from Elite’s weekly meeting when everyone talked about their clients, contracts, and endorsements. Marcus sat quietly, listening as others offered advice, and they all hashed things out. Eventually, the boss would drop a nugget of wisdom—a work-around, a solution—something no one else would have considered because he’d been around for thirty-five years. And it was brilliant. Nothing Booker would’ve come up with on his own.
He and George—and the other two guys who’d already gone out on their own—had graduated law school together four years ago. Sure, Booker had some top-notch players on his roster, but he didn’t know the business inside and out the way Marcus did.
Okay, but you can’t work with him anymore. His boss didn’t throw tantrums. He didn’t make ultimatums. And the hill Booker had chosen to die on made him unfit for Elite.
That’s fine. He wasn’t like his boss. He couldn’t break bread with his clients, bring newborn diapers to their wives when they’d run out while their husbands were on road trips, bail them out of jail, and take their calls at three in the morning when they couldn’t sleep because of some trauma in their lives, and still see them as nothing but a commission.
They might not be friends, but he cared about their welfare.
While it was easy to say Ginty’s a grown man, and that he could deal with his family, that wasn’t the reality. The hockey star wanted a relationship with his parents and siblings. He held out hope they’d eventually love him for himself and not his money or connections. He needed an outsider’s perspective.
Bottom line, Ginty relied on Booker for more than contracts. He needed one person in the world who didn’t use him.
No, he couldn’t stay at Elite, but would it be any different at the LA agency? He doubted it.
By the time he reached the shed and turned on the generator, his muscles ached, and his stomach howled. And as much as he didn’t want to admit it, he found himself eager to get back to the Hellcat.
He found her singing quietly in front of the fire. Her eyes were closed, and she had a bag of breadsticks on her lap. In that moment, her features clear of tension and makeup, she looked perfectly content. And, well, blissful.
With her smooth, porcelain skin, an expressive mouth, and high cheekbones, she was a natural beauty. It was only when he keyed into the lyrics that he heard her pain. Okay, so clearly, music was a form of therapy for her.
She was really something. After going through trauma, she wasn’t self-medicating with substances or people. She was processing.
She’d said the people closest to her had betrayed her—not someone. So, what had happened to her? Who did this?
Who do I need to hurt?
“All set.” He started toward her.
His voice jerked her out of her peaceful repose. “Oh, yay. Can I take a shower?”
She really had no clue how things worked. “The place should warm up in half an hour, but it’ll take longer for the water to get hot.” He untied his boots and set them by the fire to dry.
“That makes sense. Well, thank you for doing it.”
“Of course.” He thought about the cost to her of letting him into her bed. It must’ve scared the shit out of her, but she’d done it anyway. She didn’t have to do that. Well, actually, she did. He’d have gotten hypothermia and frostbite. Still. He appreciated that she’d done it of her own accord.
He opened the refrigerator to get the eggs and found she’d neatly organized the shelves. “I’m making scrambled eggs. Unless you want something else.”
“No, no. That sounds great.” She sprang up. “What can I do to help?”
“You can grate the cheese.”
“Sure.” She came into the kitchen like she was ready to pitch in for an emergency, but once she opened the refrigerator, she just stared into it. “Wait, what do you mean? Isn’t it already grated?”
Since she was the one who’d unloaded the groceries, she should know he didn’t have any. “Pre-grated cheese has preservatives, so it doesn’t melt as well.”
“Okay, Chef. I didn’t know that.” She pulled out three wedges. “Which one?”
“I like Gruyère in eggs.”
“Oh, I like that one. They use it in galettes in Brittany.”
He found himself trying to connect the dots. Those fig sweats were expensive—definitely a cashmere blend—and she knew enough about a region in France that produced buckwheat crepes, and yet she used bags of shredded cheese and only ate food from gift baskets. He’d like to ask questions but knew she didn’t want to go there.
She pulled a knife from the block, noted the serrated edge, and put it back in. She tried a few others before she settled on a short one used for paring. And then, she started shaving bits of cheese off the wedge. “Is this small enough?” She picked up a few slices to show him.
“Sure, I can use that.” He spoke gently, careful not to embarrass her. “Might be easier to use the grater.”
“Oh, right. Of course. That’s what you asked me to do.” She glanced around. “All right. Just point me in the right direction, and then I’ll leave you alone.”
“That drawer right over there.” Since she’d lived there for three months, he figured she’d know where everything was. Even if she didn’t cook, wouldn’t she still have gone through the drawers to get the lay of the land?
As he beat the eggs with a fork and added salt and pepper, she held the block of cheese to the metal basket and got to work. “You have to be a serious chef to go through all this for some scrambled eggs.”
Her grin set off explosions in his chest. “It tastes better.”
“I think, for so long, food was just fuel, that I didn’t appreciate how things taste. Maybe these eggs will make me pay more attention.” She worked with intensity as if the fate of the world was in her hands. Her hair shimmied, and her fingers were red with cold.
He was so busy studying her, he failed to notice the amount of cheese she’d grated for just six eggs. “Whoa. That’s good. That’s more than enough.”
“Really?” She lifted the grater to reveal a mountain of it. “Right when I get the hang of it, you make me stop?” She seemed proud of herself. Rinsing her fingers in the cold water, she grabbed a dishtowel and dried off. “Now what?”
“Coffee?”
“Sure.” She sorted through a basket of pods. “Which flavor do you like?”
“Flavor?” He glanced over to see a machine. “What the hell’s that? It’s not mine.”
“No, I bought it.” She laughed. “You said flavor like I replaced your gourmet cheese with Velveeta. Or swapped your jeans out for polyester stretch pants.”
He had sounded pretty offended. “That tracks.”
“Well, I needed coffee, and this seemed the easiest way to go.”
“How do you drink it at home?” he asked.
The natural pink in her cheeks deepened. At first, he thought she wouldn’t answer, and he felt like a dick for making her feel somehow inferior for her preferences. But then, she tipped her chin. “I drink whatever someone’s making.”
“Got it. You don’t need coffee to survive.”
“I didn’t say that.”
Huh. Was she a doctor? So busy she didn’t have time to take care of herself—maybe grabbed coffee from a pot in the break room? “Well, I’ve got a French press.” He reached for the cabinet and opened it. “Top shelf, if you can grab it.”
She pulled down the glass container. “Yes, this is what my—” Her jaw snapped shut, and she cut him a look. “This is what we use at home. I just don’t know how to work it.”
“Just heat some water, okay?” He didn’t have a kettle, so he handed her a small saucepan. “Here.”
“This is way more complicated than pods.”
“Maybe, but they’re nowhere near as rich as the coffee you get from grinding your own beans.” He stepped away from the stove to reach for the bag she’d left on the counter. “I get this from Calamity Joe’s, a coffee shop in town. You’ll see the difference.”
She filled the pan and set it on the stove, firing up the burner.
“After I get the bacon going, I’ll show you how it works.” He got another skillet out and set the slices on it. His stomach grumbled at the familiar scent.
“I know, right?” She laughed. “I’m starving, too.”
He grabbed a stick of butter and cut off a tablespoon. It sizzled and popped in the skillet. He poured the egg batter and reached for a handful of cheese, dropping it in.
“I’ll be honest with you. I have someone who cooks for me, and I don’t know why I’ve never paid attention. But watching you… I mean, I know it’s just bacon and eggs, but your attention to detail makes it seem like an art form.” She stood beside him, watching him stir, and when she smiled at him, the strangest thing happened.
Something fluttered in his chest—like a flock of birds scattering at someone’s approach. It was so bizarre that he ruined the moment by saying, “Put the bread in the toaster.”
“Um, I don’t think I saw any.” She checked the refrigerator and the empty grocery bags. “Did you leave it in the car? I can go get it.”
He eyed the round loaf of crusty sourdough bread tucked into a paper bag and realized she must’ve been looking for a bag of sandwich bread.
Quietly, he pulled the serrated knife out of the block and set it on the counter. It only took her a moment to connect it with the paper bag. “Oh. Duh.” She found the cutting board under the sink and sliced paper-thin slices. They crumbled and fell apart.
Setting the knife down, she turned to face him. “Sir, I can’t cook to save my life, and I’m going to ruin this beautiful breakfast you’re making.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He appreciated her total honesty. “This’ll take me ten minutes, and I like cooking. Go warm up by the fire.”
She glanced out the window. “It’s still coming down.”
“It is.” He didn’t like that crease between her brows. “You worried?”
“I guess I am. I didn’t grow up with snow, so I’m not used to it. But it’s the remoteness that’s scary. If anything happened…it’s not like the fire department or paramedics could get out here.”
“I’ve got a snowmobile, so there’s nothing to worry about. And a propane tank that won’t run out this century. We’re not trapped, and we won’t run out of anything.”
“Okay.” She hiked herself up onto the counter, watching him cut thick slices of bread and drop them in the toaster. “Did you build this place or buy it?”
“I bought it, but I’ve made a lot of changes over the years.”
“Oh, cool. Like what?”
“Well, it’s on the Historic Register, and the prior owners had given up on getting the council to approve modifications. I got it for a great price because it had fallen into disrepair.”
“How did you get it renovated then?”
“I convince people for a living.”
She smiled. “No kidding. You got under my covers last night.”