Eighteen.
Rhett
The second the elevator doors close on her, I can breathe again—and I hate myself for it.
I turn back to the floor. Every man on my crew suddenly finds something to do with their hands. Nail guns start back up. The saw screams to life. But I feel it, the tension still coursing through the room, the gossip lingering on the tip of their tongues.
The owner’s daughter. Up here. She had Rhett Montgomery’s phone.
Fuck.
I scrub a hand down my face and try to find the thread of what I was doing—the framing layout I was walking Levi through—but my mind is scattered. All I can see is Shea’s face. The way it changed, her smile falling, the way she walked away felt like an armor in itself I can’t begin to repair.
I did that.
No, she did that, showing up here like that. She had to know how it’d look. Didn’t she? A woman that sharp, she has to…
“Mr. Montgomery.” Jenn materializes at my elbow with her damn clipboard again and a curious brow. “I had no idea you knew Miss Winton personally.”
Every muscle in my back goes tight. “She’s a client,” I say. “I’m helping her with a restoration on a place in town.”
“How wonderful.” Jenn’s head tilts, and I watch the question form behind her eyes a half-second before she asks it. “Though, I have to ask, how did Miss Winton end up with your phone?”
My pulse roars in my ears. Say something, anything that isn’t the truth. “Must’ve left it at the job site in town,” I manage. “She was just returning it.”
“Ah.” Her smile doesn’t move, but something in it sharpens. “Of course.”
I swallow. She knows, or she’s wondering, at the very least. And wondering, from a woman who reports straight to Shea’s father, is almost worse.
This is exactly what my mother was talking about.
Thankfully, Jenn’s phone rings. “I have to take this. We’ll reconvene on the millwork numbers this afternoon.” Then she’s gone, heels clicking toward the elevator, phone to her ear.
I blow out a weighted breath and try to return my focus to the numbers on the table between me and my brother. Levi doesn’t say anything for a long time. When I finally glance up, he’s not smiling. Shit. This ain’t good.
If there’s one thing about Levi, it’s that he’s always grinning.
“So, you spent the night with her,” he says.
I shake my head. “Not now, man.”
“Nah, I’ll make this quick,” he starts, hands on the table. “You do realize you just talked to your girl like she was a fucking code violation, right?”
My jaw locks. “She showed up on the job, Levi. On this job. In front of the fucking general manager, in front of everybody.” I jab a thumb at the room. “You know what that shit looks like?”
“Yeah.” He nods. “I know exactly what it looks like. A pretty woman who likes you a whole hell of a lot went out of her way to bring you your phone you left at her place.” He lets that sit for a smug beat. “That’s what it looked like from where I stood, anyhow.”
“That’s not—” I drag a hand through my hair. “Contractor sleeps with owner’s daughter on big resort contract is a pretty solid gossip headline for this town, if you ask me. One wrong word to Winton and we’re done, Levi. Both of us. Everything we’ve built.”
“Uh-huh. So you’re saying you protected the job.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t think for one second about the fact that she came up here, fuckin’ glowing, because she was excited to see you?” His voice stays even, which is worse than if he yelled. “And you sent her off like she was somethin’ you needed to get off your site before anybody noticed.”
The words hit deep. “I had to think about the job,” I say, but it comes out weaker now. A man trying to convince himself.
“You know how long I’ve been lookin’ for what you got?
” His voice is low, rough at the edges. “How many bad dates, how many wrong women, how many nights I come home to an empty house telling myself the next one is gonna stick?” He shakes his head.
“And you weren’t even trying. You stopped trying all together.
Then this woman somehow sees you, man. She cares about you. You know what I’d give for that?”
I don’t have an answer. And I don’t think he wants one.
“Yeah, sure, you protected the job. Congratulations. Hope the presidential suites keep you warm at night.” He points a finger at my chest. “Don’t fuck this up because you’re scared of what people will say. You know better than anyone, they’ll say some shit regardless.”
He walks off before I can respond.
And I stand here in the guts of the biggest building in Whitetail, on the biggest job of my life, feeling like the smallest man in Montana.
The whole drive down the mountain I rehearse it and none of it sounds right. I panicked. I was protecting the job. I’m sorry. Every version has a ‘but’ in it, and I know, thanks to my brother, that the second there’s a ‘but,’ it’s not an apology anymore—it’s an excuse wearing a nicer shirt.
I stop at Gino’s and get a pizza, half pepperoni for Tyler, and a dozen wings, and then I drive the extra few minutes out of the way to Cup O’ Joe before they close and get the largest caramel latte they’ll pour.
A peace offering.
The Hargrove porch light is on when I pull up. Through the front window I can see her—curls piled up, one of Tyler’s hoodies swallowing her whole, a paintbrush in one hand—working at the fireplace we spent all last week prepping. Even from here the sight of her lands in my chest like a fist.
I don’t know what she’s thinking, but all I know is, I have to make this right.
I take a deep breath and grab the food. The door’s unlocked and the smell of wood stain hits me the second I step in, along with something low and sad playing from her phone speaker. She doesn’t turn around.
“Hey.”
She goes still, the brush pausing mid stroke. She doesn’t spare me a glance. “Hey.”
“Where’s Tyler?” I ask, setting the food down on the built-in window seat. I keep her drink in hand, hoping she’ll look my way.
“He’s hanging out with Willa.”
“I brought pizza.” I clear my throat. “And this…caramel-thing.” I give the iced drink a little shake to rattle the ice.
That gets her to turn.
And goddammit if her eyes aren’t red rimmed. She looks at me, the food, and the drink in my hand with an expression that guts me worse than if she’d just thrown the brush at my head.
“You brought me an iced caramel latte,” she says flatly.
“Shea—”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“No.” I set the latte down next to the food and cross the room toward her, stopping just within reach and tell her the truth. “I was a coward this morning. There’s no excuse for it. And I’m not going to stand here and give you one.”
Her jaw works. “You could barely stand to be near me. You wouldn’t even touch me, Rhett.” Her voice cracks and she hates it, I can tell.
“I know.”
“Do you know how that felt?” She’s quiet and wrecked and it’s gut wrenching.
“I have spent my whole life watching people’s faces change when they find out who my father is.
The second they hear Winton, suddenly I’m not a person anymore, I’m an opportunity, or a threat, or a-a thing to be careful around.
” A tear escapes and she swipes it away, furious.
“And I actually thought you were the one person who didn’t do that.
And then this morning, you did it worse than anyone. ”
I close the rest of the distance between us, and when she doesn’t step back, I reach up and thumb the streak of stain off her cheekbone. My hand unsteady.
“It wasn’t you,” I tell her. “I swear to you, it was never your name. I don’t give a damn whose daughter you are.
” I drag in a breath. “I panicked because I want you so bad it scares the hell out of me, and this morning the whole world got to see it, and I’ve spent my whole life being the careful one, baby.
The reliable one nobody looks twice at. It’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at.
And this morning I stood in that room and realized everybody was looking at me thinking I got the job by crawling into bed with the owner’s daughter.
I got scared, and I tried to toss you aside for my reputation, my pride.
” I shake my head, disgusted with myself.
“That’s not you being a Winton. That’s me being a coward. ”
For a long moment she just looks at me, her breath uneven, her gaze glossy. “Rhett.” She says my name like it hurts. “I’m leaving in two months. Maybe this is why we shouldn’t? Maybe it’d be easier if we just…
“Don’t.” I cut her off, my hand sliding to cradle the back of her neck. “Don’t talk like that. Ever.”
“I’m just saying it would be simpler—”
“I don’t want simple.” I press my forehead to hers, and my voice drops to something raw I’ve never let anybody hear.
“I want you. Two months, two weeks, whatever the hell we get—I’ll take it.
I’d rather have you and lose you than play it safe and never have you at all.
” I pull back just enough to see her face.
“I’m falling for you, sweetheart. I know I shouldn’t say it.
I know it complicates every damn thing, but I’m not gonna stand here and be a coward twice in one day.
So there it is, and I’m not sorry about it.
The only thing I’m sorry about is this morning. ”
Her breath catches. Her eyes go wide and wet and searching, and I watch her open her mouth—watch the words rise up and stall out, watch the fear win, watch her decide she can’t admit she’s feeling it, too.
And I don’t need her to.
“You don’t have to—” I start.
She kisses me.
Hard and sudden, both hands fisting in the front of my flannel, pulling me down into her like she was holding it back the whole time I was talking.
It knocks the breath clean out of me. I catch her, one arm banding around her waist, the other still cradling her jaw.
She moans softly against my mouth and I feel it everywhere.
That’s her answer. And god help me, I’ll fuckin’ take it.
The kiss turns molten fast, a whole day of hurt pouring into it at once. She’s pulling me down, I’m walking her back, and her spine hits the one stretch of wall we haven’t touched yet.
“Rhett.” She gasps against my mouth. “I need you. I thought about you all day, and I hated it. I hated feeling like I couldn’t have you.”
“I know, baby. I know.” I get a hand under her thigh and hitch it around my hip, pressing into her, letting her feel exactly what a day of guilt has done to me. “I’m right here. You have me.”
She whimpers and drags my mouth back to hers, and there’s nothing careful about it—not from her, not from me. Her hands are under my shirt, nails scraping up my sides. I fumble the tie on her sweatpants while she works my belt, both of us frantic, greedy.
It’s not pretty. It’s not slow. It’s need, plain and desperate, two people reaching for the thing that got knocked loose this morning and refusing to let go.
“Here?” she breathes, glancing at the drop cloths and the general mess of a house mid-restoration.
“Yes, here.” I get her sweats down her thighs. “My girl just told me she needs me, and I’m not going to deny her. Ever.”
“Yes.”
I lift her clean off the floor and she wraps her legs around me, and I take her against the only dry wall in her half-finished house, quick and rough and desperate, swallowing every sound she makes.
It’s fast for the both of us. We’re too keyed up, too raw, too much emotion.
When she comes apart, her hot pussy pulsing around me with my name on her lips, I follow her right over, my face buried in her neck.
I hold her steady, my cock buried deep, her legs trembling on my hips—but I’m not ready to let her go.
She pulls back to look at me, flushed and wrecked and smiling, finally, the hurt from this morning gone soft at the edges. She reaches up and pushes a strand of hair off my forehead. “The pizza is getting cold,” she says.
“Don’t care.”
“My latte ice is melting.”
“Hmm, should I care?” I ask, and she nods. I kiss her, slow this time, another apology. “All right, darlin’.”
My cock slips out of her warmth and she whimpers softly, making my dick twitch, ready for round two whenever she is.
We clean up, redress, and she clears a spot on the drop cloth near the window seat while I flip the pizza box open.
We sit, our backs against the wall, close enough that our shoulders touch.
She takes a bite, watching the fireplace we’ve been resurrecting, half of it stained dark and rich, half still raw wood. “It’s going to be beautiful,” she says quietly. “When it’s done.”
“It is.” But I’m not looking at the fireplace.
She catches me staring and rolls her eyes, but she leans her head against my shoulder. I wrap an arm around her and pull her in, pizza balanced on my knee. “I really am sorry about this morning,” I murmur into her hair.
“I know.” She hands me the melted latte to hold, stealing a wing off the box instead. “You already made it up to me.”
A laugh rumbles out of me. “That was makin’ it up to you?”
“Mhm. That was a start.” She smiles up at me, teasing, “You’ve got two more months to finish the job, Montgomery.”
Two more months. She means it as a joke, but it lands heavy in my chest all the same. Two months has never sounded more like a dreaded countdown.
I don’t say any of that, though. I just kiss the top of her head and reach for another slice, and we sit there in the dim lighting, eating pizza on the floor, and for a little while, I let myself pretend the clock isn’t running out on us…