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Fuck, fucking fuck, oh fuck.
My car in Boston, the one sitting idly in my seldom-used garage, has remote start, heated seats, a heated wheel—you name it. This Corolla has none of those features. It’s not warming fast enough. My hands are shaking and I can still see my breath in front of my face. I swear and shiver, willing the car to do its part and get me the hell out of Montana.
A few minutes later, once I’ve reversed out of the driveway with trembling hands on the wheel and am maneuvering down the dirt road that leads to the main road, the heat finally kicks in and warmth makes its way to my fingers.
Open road. I did it. I escaped the cabin without seeing Gus, and now I never have to talk to his annoying ass again.
Just then, my phone lights up in the cup holder. Before the screen shuts off, the airline logo flashes in my notifications. Immediately, my stomach drops. No, no, no. For a second, I take my eyes off the road to check my phone.
There it is in capital letters: CANCELED.
“Are you shitting me?”
I unlock my phone to view the full update: Flight 152 from BZN to BOS canceled due to hazardous weather conditions. Please contact customer service for rescheduling options.
I’m so outraged that I don’t even notice it. The swerve of the car—the pull of the wheel.
The sound of screeching.
My own voice screaming.
Impact.
Chapter 12: Gus
Empty sheets. Again. Again.
I shouldn’t be surprised, and therefore, I shouldn’t be angry either. I knew exactly what I was getting into when I pursued Julia Ridgeway. A pampered princess. A spoiled heiress. Too hot for her own good. Too smart to be well-adjusted, but too pretty for anyone to realize it—even her. Of course she would run away. I should have seen this coming. Hell, I’ve lived this before.
I knew better.
As I rest on my elbow, lingering beside the empty space on my bed that smells like Julia’s perfume, I’m furious. Not at her, but at myself for toying with the idea of brewing a pot of coffee, sitting with her in my heated backyard patio, and watching the ice melt off the tree branches. The fantasy is so patently idiotic now.
This was a business deal. I’ve made hundreds of deals in my life, and I know how they go. They’re not personal—they’re just business. The cliché stands because it’s true: Not personal, just business.
I rotate onto my back and stare at the dark wooden beams crossing my ceiling. It’s for the best. I repeat it in my head until it feels true. I re-familiarize myself with the facts: She’s twenty-eight, phenomenal in bed, dangerously attractive, and accustomed to the world tripping and fighting to fall at her feet.
She doesn’t want to drink coffee and watch ice melt, you idiot.
Several minutes pass and I’m still counting slats in the darkness of the pre-sunrise hours.
This is pathetic.
I’m a goddamn billionaire. I can sleep with any woman I want. I could send three text messages and have two blond, twenty-eight-year-old models in my bed before noon if I wanted. Hell, I could have five insatiable women literally named Julia in my bed before noon if I wanted—yes, in the middle of a snowstorm.
And yet I’m lying here, recalling the sound of her voice. The scent of her hair. Her soft skin. The clench of her warm pussy around my cock. Being with her was different than anything I’ve ever experienced carnally. I’ve been with plenty of women in my life, some demure, some wild, and some downright kinky. None—not even one—affected me the way Julia did. There’s sex, and then there’s fucking. Julia and I…that was fucking. It was raw and unbridled and surprisingly daring given we don’t know a damn thing about each other.
“Get out of my head.” I say that part aloud before I shift onto my side and get out of the bed. I pause with my bare feet on the heated floors and I lean over, elbows on my knees, before exhaling heavily. A quick check on my phone (no messages from Julia—not surprising) tells me it’s five in the morning. A good enough time as any to start the day before the storm comes in.
Downstairs, the cabin is quiet. I head to the kitchen and turn on the coffee pot, opting for a regular cup rather than something more complicated from my espresso machine. I can already tell today is going to be a long, contemplative sipping kind of day, so I’ll need a steady drip if I’m going to make it through.
Once the sun rises, I’ll get one last hike in and wrap up the chores in the greenhouse. Chances are, when there are a few feet of snow outside I won’t want to trek out there no matter how warm the greenhouse is. I just need to make sure the generator is all set in case anything goes wrong in the storm.
For now, I’ve got time to kill.
The US markets aren’t open yet, so I’ll have to wait to check my stocks. Not a problem. I’ve got a stack of books up to my knee that I planned on reading over the holidays. I may as well start now.
I grab my coffee and head to the living room, where I stop in my tracks.
