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The second: Julia Ridgeway, the daughter of a billionaire, gingerly climbing out of the driver’s seat. Magnificently beautiful—still beautiful enough to force me to fight back a smile—she emerges from the car and tosses back her long blond hair.
My heart pumps harder when I think back to Milan. Gripping her hair. Penetrating her with my middle finger. Depriving her. Punishing her.
She remains by the Corolla and stares at me over it, letting out a heavy exhale. Her breath fogs with the blistering cold and she calls out, “I thought the devil liked to keep things warm. You surprise me every day, August.”
That smart mouth. It gets me every time. While I always appreciate a well-constructed insult, I keep my expression flat while I descend the porch’s stone steps to meet her. Sure enough, she’s going to stand her ground and refuse to move until I walk all the way over to her.
“Julia,” I offer in greeting.
And then I’m not sure what to do next—to hug her, shake her hand…fuck her right here and now. There’s no playbook for how to interact with an heiress who you’ve contractually bound for a night. In lieu of all of it, I end up pulling the car door wider so I can pop the trunk. All the while, she glares at me with an annoyed, petulant expression on her pretty face.
Well, I can be petulant too. Without another word, I take both of her bags into the cabin, cutting the greetings short.
Once we’re inside, the cabin’s familiar smell of burning firewood and coffee sets in, and I can tell she’s grateful for the warmth when she breathes out and rotates to face me. The pinkness in her cheeks gives her a rare air of innocence. Her eyes lock on mine before she looks around, surely taking in the size of the place.
“You said you had a cabin and I thought the worst, but this is…certainly livable.” Her attention travels to the vaulted ceiling—and yeah, she’s impressed.
‘Certainly livable’ is the nicest thing she has ever said to me, and I reward her by folding my arms and mentioning, “You’re late.”
“So?” She shrugs off her coat before she crosses her arms in a matching defensive stance—ready for battle, as usual.
I take her coat. It’s Burberry and down, but not heavy enough for the weather. Damn it. I should have prepared and bought her something warmer.
“Not going to answer me?” she prods.
“The sun sets at four-thirty this time of year. The last thing I needed was you driving around in the dark and getting yourself lost.”
“How could I get lost? I typed ‘bumfuck’ into Google maps and it led me right here.”
“Driving here in the winter is dangerous, Julia.”
“I’m from Boston. I know how to drive in the snow.”
She’s going to fight every word out of my mouth. I figured as much, but she’s just so good at it. When it comes to sardonicism, Julia Ridgeway is the greatest of all time—which pisses me off because I once thought I held that title.
Sighing, I pick up her bags again. “Shame on me for showing concern. I’ll never make that mistake again.”
“And they say an old dog can’t learn new tricks.”
I’m halfway to the stairs, but I shoot a glare over my shoulder and find her smirking at me. I bite back a thousand retorts and raise my chin. “Come. I’ll take you to your room.”
I lead her to the second floor, where I take her to the suite adjacent to mine. When I designed it, I initially envisioned a kids room. The door from the hallway leads into a small entry room that connects to a larger space with a bedroom, fireplace, bathroom, etcetera beyond an archway. I figured the entry could be a play area or a space for a desk and books. But when it came time to decorate, it seemed weird to set up a space for a kid I wasn’t even close to having. Instead, I filled it with some of the furniture I made with the leftover wood from the dining table and chairs.
“My room is next door,” I continue, placing her luggage at the foot of the bed. “Bathroom has everything you need. Closet is over there.”
“I won’t be unpacking. I’ll be gone in the morning,” she replies before she leans against one of the wooden bedposts.
“If it gets too cold for you, I’ll light a fire,” I continue, ignoring her comment. I don’t care if she leaves in the morning. If she holds up her end of the deal tonight, she’s free to do whatever she wants—and that includes fleeing in her Toyota Corolla.
“Fine.” Julia glances at her fingernails. It’s a dismissal.
“Do you need anything else?”
“Nope.” She refuses to look at me. “But you should go. I’m sure you have companies to absorb and gut before you sell. I hear TruEarn is up for grabs.”
I pause in the doorway. She’s not wrong. TruEarn is a rival company, and once Davenport-Ridgeway purchases FundRight, TruEarn will likely fold.
But how does she know about that?
