He stalked past her, his smell lingering in the wake of the breeze he left behind. Earthy. Outdoorsy. Dusty. The barest hint of pine. A heady perfume that belonged only to him. She toed off each of her boots and left them at the door, hurrying to jog up the sweeping staircase in the direction he’d walked. She came to the landing at the top, overlooking the antler chandelier lighting the entryway, then gazed down the hallway.
“Down here, Rose.”
For some reason, she paused. He’d called her “baby,” “Doctor R,” “girl,” “Morales,” but never her first name. Trepidation skittered over her skin as she turned to see him leaning out a door and crooking his finger to get her attention. Was it such a good idea to isolate herself in the depths of this house alone? Was he some ax murderer who lured his victims in with his charm, then tied them up in cages to torture them or something weird like that?
Stupid thought. And yet a thought most women probably had in the same situation. Still, her base impulses compelled her forward. She adjusted her pack on her shoulder and turned his way, growing closer, feeling his eyes hot upon hers as they faced each other. Her gaze dipped downward. She couldn’t help it. After their pottery flirting, she couldn’t help the desire she felt to look at him there. As if sensing what was on her mind, she swore she saw it throb, and he quickly withdrew, as if he knew she’d seen it.
She turned the corner into what had to be his bedroom suite and withheld her sigh. It was beautiful. Masculine, for certain, with handcrafted pine furniture, a wooden trunk with Spanish metalwork for the hinges and clasps and the Legacy’s cattle brand burned into the lid. A throw blanket was tossed across a distressed leather chair, woven in patterns of teal and iron-ore cloud terraces and geometric rows. Like downstairs, the floors were hardwood—wide, old planks that had survived over one hundred years of children’s scampering and boot scuffing and creaked under her feet, adorned with rugs of similar southwestern designs as the blanket.
His smell hit her firmly. His earthiness, fresh soap, and the pine scent were more noticeable now. My God, she could nestle her face into one of his pillows cast in disarray on his unmade bed and inhale the scent forever. And what a bed. King size and extra long. A veritable playground for a decent romp in the sheets—stop it! Heat flushed her cheeks.
“The bed ain’t as old as the pot, but judging by how hard you’re staring at it, it must be old enough to catch your interest,” he murmured beside her ear, seemingly back to his senses and in command of his body.
She whirled around to face him. He was inches from her, his warmth radiating onto her and his presence looming over her. Unable to find the right words, she decided to stay silent. No doubt a jumble of incriminating attempts at explaining away her gaze would flow forth and give him another reason to give her hell.
“The older it is, the more you’ll like it, am I right?” he taunted.
So. Many. Hormones. She cleared her throat, looked away, glancing around the room beneath his scrutiny. Another photograph of his brothers and him as boys in a row on a fence rail sat on his dresser. She smiled. The tallest of the three had the gangly body of a tween on the verge of puberty: all awkward limbs with the softness of a child still clinging to his cheeks. The middle brother wore a forced smile, though his arms were folded as if pouting, and the youngest brother and only blond—Toby—was missing a couple teeth with his face bunched into a dimpled grin.
“You guys were cute,” Rose said, stepping away from him to take a closer look.
Toby followed, closing the gap between them. “Yeah, our parents made us wear those matching cowboy boots. Trav, in the middle, acted like a baby about it because he’d just gotten a pair of Air Jordans and my dad said he couldn’t wear them for the photo shoot. So he sulked the whole time. Little bitch-ass.” Toby spoke the insult with fraternal fondness and a chuckle.
Rose laughed, shaking her head. No wonder Travis looked as if he pouted.
Across the room, over a second dresser hanging on the wall, was a photograph of a cowboy, arm up, fist knotted through a rope as a bull bucked its hind legs out. The rider’s face was obstructed by his Stetson, but she recognized that old hat instantly, even if it was clearly new in the photo. It was Toby. She moved to stand in front of it, looking deeply at it, examining the torque of his body, his lean waist, his broad chest wrapped tightly in his protective vest, his forearms rippling with youthful muscle as he rode out eight seconds. He seemed younger, not as filled out, and a date on a banner in the arena said 2003. Thirteen years ago. He’d been what, eighteen? So young.
“You were good, weren’t you?” Rose said. “How come you didn’t try going pro? Or did you?”
Toby huffed, and she turned over her shoulder to see him jamming his hands into his pockets and shrugging, though a hardness etched his face in unforgiving lines, and that bitterness—or remorse—that he’d worn when mentioning his father’s death seemed to shroud him in its shadow.
He shook his head. “It wasn’t for me.”
So much of this man seemed a secret, and last night, as they’d held each other, gazed at the nighttime mountain, he’d barely cracked an inch about his mother. He flirted mercilessly, but what if he flirted to avoid letting anyone know him better? What if he—a wealthy businessman’s son—wrapped himself in his ain’ts and curse words and one-night stands like they were barbed wire that would keep him safe from attachment? Would keep people away? Yet here she was, against all her better judgment, feeling sparks firing like NASCAR pistons every time she was near him.
He walked across the room to an open entryway into the bathroom. “I put out a set of towels on the counter. Extra body wash and soaps on the rack. Have at it.” He marched across the floor again toward the bedroom door and stepped through, grabbing the knob and finally glancing back at her. “Take your time. I’ll be downstairs.”