1. Taylor
Taylor
I think someone’s trying to play a cruel joke on me.
Either that, or my driver took a wrong turn at some point. I peer through the windshield as the SUV cruises up a long, snow-packed driveway. This can’t be it.
On the flight here, I’d imagined a sprawling timber lodge with a valet waiting beneath a heated porch and a lobby dripping with enough luxury to make me not miss San Francisco.
Instead, I’m approaching the front of a weathered, split-level ranch house, its silver-brown siding worn down by years of unforgiving winters.
Wide porches wrap around both levels, but they feel more desolate than inviting.
No valet is waiting to collect my luggage. In fact, there’s no one here at all.
Definitely not a luxury resort. It looks more like a stripped-back, budget getaway.
I don’t do budget getaways.
The airport shuttle driver, Raymond, slows down in front of the largest building. “You’ve arrived at your destination, Mr. Van Houten,” he announces.
“Your GPS must’ve gotten the addresses mixed up,” I reply. “This is not the Silver Sage Retreat.”
“Well, considering I’ve been shuttling guests for years, sir, I don’t need GPS. Besides,” he points through the windshield. I follow his finger. A battered wooden sign leans sideways beside the driveway. Half the paint is peeling away.
Silver Sage Retreat.
Oh... screw my fricking life.
Huffing, I reach for my phone, realizing now that Mom looked right into my eyes and lied to me. She told me I’d be staying at my step-uncle’s mountain resort. This looks like somewhere old people go to die.
Mom doesn’t pick up. No surprises there.
I can count how many times she has picked up since she decided to run for Congress.
Unbuckling my seatbelt, I step into the freezing Montana air, getting blasted with an instant regret.
San Francisco winters are civilized. This feels like nature personally hates me.
The wind cuts through my designer coat, chilling my bones.
How the hell am I going to survive three months of this?
Shoving my hands into my pockets, I scan the property.
It’s aggressively rustic, with sheds and barns and about twenty log cabins that look more like oversized hunting shacks than premium guest accommodations.
Raymond rests my luggage near the foot of the front steps, and I hand him a generous tip.
He smiles graciously, and I swear he mutters ‘good luck’ under his breath before sliding into the driver’s seat.
As he starts the engine, the front door opens.
A giant lopes down the steps. Well, a giant by my standards, anyway.
I’m five-seven. He’s at least six-four. Dark-haired, with a thick beard streaked with shades of gray.
His muscular torso fills out a charcoal sweater, and a pair of faded jeans covers long legs and sturdy thighs.
Every lingering doubt about this place disappears as he stops in front of me.
Because this is Roman.
My step-uncle.
But the photo Mom showed me was of a man who looked rugged but approachable. The one standing before me carries a heavy air of danger. Reflexively, I glance over my shoulder at the SUV cruising toward the gates.
“You’re late.”
No ‘good afternoon’ or ‘nice to finally meet you’. Nothing. He eyes my bags as if they offend him. And now I’m offended. I’m not a master at reading people, but it seems as if he doesn’t want me here. But I must be wrong. He willingly agreed to take me in, so he’s probably having a bad day.
That makes two of us. I’m not seeing a tray of mimosas or a warm towel anywhere.
“Good afternoon to you, too,” I reply. “And I can afford to be late, seeing as I’m on vacation.” I slide a strap of my designer backpack over my shoulder, turning toward the cabins. “Which one is mine?”
Roman snorts. His gaze sweeps over me with mild amusement. “None. You’ll be staying at the main house with us.”
I don’t get to ask who ‘us’ is. He spins on his heels, marching up the steps. “Come on, I don’t have all day.” Such a glowing ray of sunshine. Rolling my eyes, I follow him.
“Uh-uh, pretty boy. This is not the Ritz. Around here, you carry your own stuff.”
I turn toward the deep, lazy voice coming from my right.
He’s younger than Roman. Mid-thirties, maybe, with short brown hair, a clean-shaven face, and sharp, golden-brown eyes.
A tad shorter than my step-uncle, but they have the same body type.
Like Roman, he’s wearing a sweater and jeans that hug his muscular body.
A teasing smile dances on his lips as he stops in front of me.
“Name’s Jude,” he says. “Roman’s second-in-command.”
I glance down at the hand he offers me. He snickers when I leave him hanging. “I promise I won’t bite.”
“Yeah, I’d rather not take my chances.” Especially when he does look like he bites. Something fierce and edgy sparkles in those eyes that look me over with a scrutinizing stare. A warm, familiar sensation awakens in my stomach. I take a step back. “What do you mean that I carry my stuff?”
Jude chuckles, his hand falling at his side. “You’re funny.”
“I’m not trying to be funny.”
He clicks his tongue, giving me another detailed once-over. “Oh... this is going to be more interesting than I thought.” He says it more to himself, but then he directs a smirk toward me. “It means you won’t have anyone waiting on you hand and foot. Welcome to the real world.”
And just like Roman, he doesn’t wait for my response.
But at least he takes my two largest bags.
Grabbing the remaining luggage, I follow him inside the house, where warmth wraps a soothing cloak around me.
We enter a large living room with a brick fireplace dominating one wall, its mantel displaying an old clock and two iron candleholders.
A leather sofa sits in front of it, the dark-brown color a little faded.
On either side are two massive armchairs.
A wooden coffee table with dents and scratches, a thick beige rug, and a few nondescript paintings complete the appearance.
Simple. Generic. Looking around, it’s difficult to tell who lives here.
“Upstairs,” Jude says, pulling my attention away from a door on the other side of the room.
He leads me up a short flight of wooden stairs to the first door in the hallway.
Like downstairs, it’s ordinary. A double bed sits against weathered walls, covered with a thick patchwork quilt.
A wooden dresser stands opposite the bed, its surface mostly bare except for a small lamp.
In one corner, a worn leather armchair rests beside a narrow bookshelf filled with old magazines.
At least it’s clean, I guess.
Jude rests my suitcases in a corner of the room. I expect him to leave, but he stands there, hands on his hips, eyes fixed on me.
Unnerving me.
“What?” I finally blurt.
“Why would someone like you move to an old ranch resort?” he asks.
“Someone like me?”
“Yeah.” He jerks his chin in my direction. “All preppy and shit. I get the vibe that you don’t like getting your hands dirty.”
I also don’t like letting my mother down. Coming here was the last thing I wanted to do, but it was the safest choice—for her and me. It’s not something I’d want to discuss with someone I just met, though. “None of your business.”
Jude nods slowly, as if he’s processing my response. “Well, good luck to you.”
Is it a coincidence that I’ve heard the same words twice within half an hour? Either way, I don’t need luck. I turn my gaze toward the blank canvas outside the window. What I need is a time machine. That way, I can clean up the mess that forced me to move here.
“Oh, and fresh sheets are in the closet.” Jude doubles back, pointing to a small wooden door across the room. “Toiletries, bathroom.” Again, he points, and I shift my attention to an open doorway. “Although I’m not sure they’re fancy enough for you, pretty boy.”
“Please don’t call me that.” Especially when he’s the pretty one—or, I’d rather say, handsome, really.
His features should be intimidating—the firm jaw, defined cheekbones, and dark, unruly brows are enough to make anyone feel inadequate.
But for some reason, I don’t. Maybe it’s those warm brown eyes.
They soften every hard edge until looking away becomes the hardest thing I’ve done all day.
But then I catch myself. I remember the reason I left San Francisco. The same reason I deactivated my Grindr account and put all my secret hookups on a permanent block list. I shouldn’t admire another man like this.
Jude walks up to me. I flinch as he reaches toward my face, sweeping my hair away, his gaze boring into me. “Mhm… I don’t think I’ll stop. It suits you.”
He gently pats my cheek, a hint of a smile on his lips as he turns around. The door closes behind him. I let out a pent-up breath and drop my ass onto the bed.
Half an hour. I’ve only been here for half an hour, but it’s long enough for the truth to sink in.
I didn’t leave my problems back home.
They followed me here.