Tate (Mountain Men 3)

“Everything alright?”

“Oh, aye, these clothes look good,” I say, as I step toward the fireplace and pretend to be warming myself by the dying flames. His back’s to me, so I quickly drop the paper into the flames, and the fire licks up fast, burning brightly again.

He turns and looks at me curiously.

I put my back to the fire, hoping to block the letter, and smile at him.

“I’ll just go get changed, then… need a shower.”

He nods. “Go on, then. You’ll find everything you need in there. But make it quick, I’ve got to get up to the main house soon.”

I step into the bathroom and shut the door behind me. I frown at the handle. There’s no lock. Who doesn’t put a lock on the door to the toilet?

Honestly?

Whatever, I need a shower. I place the clothes she gave me—a pair of yoga pants and a hoodie—on a little table beside a vase of flowers and look around the room. Thick, fluffy towels the color of a summer sky sit on a shelf next to the sink. It’s somehow both modern and antiquated in here, complete with a clawfoot tub. A girl could soak in a tub like that while reading a good romance, the room lit only by candlelight. Mmmm. Sounds divine.

But he told me to be quick, and I know my place here. I’m only with Tate because he’s keeping an eye on me.

I hear him on the phone in the other room and realize I’ve taken far too long already. I turn the shower on, and while the water warms, open up the wee bag of toiletries.

There are little bottles of fragrant lotions and soaps in the bag Paisley gave me, along with a fresh razor, a small tube of deodorant, and some lip gloss. There’s a shiny blue package I don’t recognize at first, so when I open it, my jaw unhinges at the sight of half a dozen condoms.

Paisley!

I go straight from “oh my God what does she think we’re doing” to “what is she doing with this many condoms?”

Oh my God. I groan and shove them to the back of the bag. I might need them, but she doesn’t have to know that.

I enjoy every minute of this. The large, crystal-clean shower. The scent of high-quality soap and shampoo. Even the razor is one of the nicest ones I've ever used.

I know that my friends are well-to-do. I know they're wealthy, and they live in a really nice house with really nice things. But it isn't until I'm actually staying with them that I see exactly how nice things are.

I'll enjoy them while I'm here.

He knocks at the door. "Yes?"

“Let’s go.”

I want to say no, I'm not done. I'd like another hour or two under this shower that feels like I’m at a spa, thank you very much.

But I don’t. Now isn't the time for me to become difficult. I need to do exactly what he says and mind myself. The last thing I need to do is give him an excuse to tattle on me to his brothers. Or, worse, his father. Hell, anyone. So I go along with it. I'll cooperate.

“Aye, almost done. Just finishing up shaving my legs!”

“You don’t need to shave your legs,” he says, his irritation evident even through the door, muted by the sound of the shower.

“Of course I do. You don’t want to get pricked by barbs.”

I stifle a groan. Oh, God, did I really just say that? Has he read that as an implication in any way that I somehow anticipate my naked legs brushing up against his?

“I like your barbs.”

Yes, I just melted a little. Even though we’re talking about unshaved legs, it’s weirdly romantic.

Still, I quickly zip the razor over my legs, because it’s all lubricated and pink and glides like butter. Heaven.

I finish quickly, towel off, and tug on the clothes Paisley sent. They fit a little oddly, but it’s far better than wearing nothing but his tee.

“You look gorgeous.”

I blink at him from the open bathroom door, stunned. I look down at myself. The clothes are baggy and faded. My hair’s wet, still dripping onto my shoulders and the floor, and I’m not wearing any makeup. Is he mad?

He crooks a finger at me. “C’mere.”

My pulse races as I do what he tells me, curious to what he has in mind. He steps toward me as I walk toward him, and we meet in the middle. I look up at him, my neck craning to see. He’s about a full head taller than I am when I’m barefoot. I’m not a little girl, but I feel little when I’m this close to him.

Wordlessly, his hand slides to the small of my back, pulling me a little closer.

“You’re here as my guest.”

I nod. “Your guest.”