by Kate Tilney
“Oh, I won’t be starting any more.”
Emmy rubs her hands up and down her arms like she’s trying to give herself a hug. I long to hold her again, but I can’t. I ball my hands into fists at my sides.
I nod toward the laptop on the bed. “Were you writing?”
“I was trying to.”
“There’s a desk in the corner.”
“And I’ll probably write there at some point.” She releases her hold on her arms. “I’m kind of nomadic when I work. At home I’ll spend a couple of hours writing in my bed. Then at my desk. I’ll move to my couch, and then back to my bed.”
There are a lot of better uses for a bed than writing.
“You don’t have a lot of surface options in here.” In addition to the aforementioned bed and desk, there’s a loveseat and a couple of stools at the counter.
“It’s more than enough.” She traces a hand over the back of one of the stools. She might as well have run her hand over my cock based on the way it reacts. “It’s beautiful furniture. Did you make it?”
I nod and tuck my hands into my jean pockets. “I’ll let you get back to it.”
Her brown eyes meet my gaze. “Thanks again for saving me.”
I close the door behind me.
Back in my workshop, I look at the rocking chair I was working on when I heard her cries for help. It’s a custom order for someone who passed through town and saw a similar piece in my mother’s store. I’d like to get more orders like that. But the only downside of living in the middle of nowhere, near as I can tell, is drumming up business.
With any luck, after renting out my cabin for most of the summer and into the fall, I should have enough of a nest-egg to for promotion. While the thought of spending time and money advertising makes me want to hurl, it’s the only way to get more customers.
I look out the window back at my cabin. A shadow moves past the curtains, and I can imagine Emmy headed to bed to write.
I need to stay away. Don’t I? I know she isn’t my ex. But I also don’t know that she isn’t. Until I’m sure either way, it’s best we keep our relationship strictly landlord and tenant.
No longer in the mood to work, I reach for my phone and check my emails. There’s a new message with my mom’s name in it that grabs my attention.
The subject line reads, Debbie Franklin would like to share a book with you.
I click on the message and there’s a short note:
Thought you might like to get to know your new guest a little better. This one’s my favorite.
So Mom sent me one of Emmy’s books. My thumb hovers over “DOWNLOAD NOW.” I won’t deny that I’m curious. But do I really want to read about two characters having hot, steamy sex as written by the woman I’d like to re-enact those scenes with for myself?
Then I remember the way her hip felt against mine. My cock twitches. I guess it couldn’t hurt. I press the button and wait for the story to load.
Chapter Three
Emmy
After Rhett left, I spent the next fifteen minutes with my head between my legs fighting a panic attack. It was while I sat there with the blood rushing to my head that I had an epiphany. Wouldn’t Rhett make the ultimate romantic hero?
Three days later, my fingers and wrists ache from the workout I’ve put them through. But I also have a solid first act to my book. Maybe my best yet. Before I can second guess myself, I attach the pages to an email and fire them off to Byron with a quick note.
Would you believe I found inspiration for the perfect gothic gentleman here in the mountains?
Though part of me wants to keep working, I need a break. I’m sure it’s just an urban legend, but I’m worried I might go blind if I stare at the computer screen any longer.
Stretching in the barstool, my eyes wander to the window. The sun is setting. That means it’s too late to go out and explore the wilderness, though I’m not sure I have the guts to do it on my own.
Of course, I’m sure Rhett would appear to save the day if I needed him. He’s popped in to check on me a few times since the incident. On the first visit, he asked if I needed any supplies while he was in town. When he returned later in the day, he had a basket of baked goods from his mother—along with half a dozen paperbacks for me to sign. This morning, before he left for wherever mountain men go during the day, he brought me a wooden bookmark.
My fingers trace over the detail in the carving I’m sure he made. It’s a miniature landscape of the mountains and glaciers, with a long-horned goat in the foreground. According to my Google search, it’s kind of the official emblem for nearby Glacier National Park. I really should make a point to spend one day in the park. Who knows if I’ll ever be back this way again? Who knows if I’ll ever have the chance to see a glacier?
It’s while I’m deep into another Internet search on things to do that I hear it. A rustling outside. Not the kind from a squirrel playing around in the bush. But the kind a bear would probably make the moment before it knocks down the door in search of Debbie Franklin’s picnic basket.
My heart pounds even as I take deep, steadying breaths, trying to keep my cool. It’s probably nothing. Just my overactive imagination. Bears are afraid of people. So are the elk. And wolves.
The thought of a wolf outside my door has me reaching for my cell phone. I punch in the number on the laminated page Rhett left for visitors. He picks up on the third ring.
“It’s Emmy,” I whisper loudly.
“Are you okay?”
How many times has the guy asked me that? “There’s something outside my door.”
“What’s outside your door?”
“I don’t know.” My voice goes up an octave, all attempts at keeping my shit together gone in a flash. “I’m too scared to open it. Can you see it from your place?”
He gives a heavy sigh, but a moment later I hear a door creak.
“Hey Emmy?”
“Yes?”
“Open your door.”
Panic slices through me. “Are you crazy?”
“Maybe, but not about this. Open the door.”
One hand gripping the phone, I reach for a knife from the woodblock on the counter with the other. At the door, teeth clenched, I brace myself. God, I hope I don’t regret this.
Slowly, I turn the handle and inch it open.
I gasp. There, nibbling on leaves in the bush next to the door is a deer. From across the clearing, I share a glance with Rhett. Even from this distance, I can tell he’s smiling.
“That’s a mule deer,” he says. “A fawn.”
“How old?”
“Hard to say. But she won’t hurt you.”
We stand there in silence watching. Seemingly unaware of her audience, the deer eats, stretching out her neck, her dark eyes shining. I’m not sure how long we stay frozen with each other on the phone, but the last streaks of sunlight are fading from the sky when the fawn finishes her dinner and trots away. Rhett crosses the path then. I drop the knife to the ground and hang up the phone. I’m in his arms before I can overthink it.
“That was magical.”
“There’s a lot more magic out there.”
My heart flutters at his words. “I’ve been so busy working, I haven’t really taken the time to experience this place.”
“Whenever you want a break let me know.” He gazes down at me. “I’m at your service. Anything you want.”
I know what I want. Now more than ever. I want his lips on mine. His hands on my skin. I’ve never been one for vacation flings, but maybe it’s time to change that. Because everything about this man seems to call out to me. I can’t resist it any longer.
Leaning up on my toes, I move my face toward his. His lowers. We’re a breath apart when my phone rings. Rhett recoils like it’s a gunshot instead of a ringtone.
“Sorry about that.” He releases his hold on me and runs a hand through his hair. “I should get back to work.”
I watch as he turns and blindly answer my phone.
>
“Emmy, it’s Byron. Do you have a minute?”
“Mmm.”
“It’s about the pages you sent me. I’m only a chapter in but I’m hooked.” The excitement in his voice has me grinning. “You’ve got yourself a winner here. And Lord Rogan? Is he really based on a guy there? Because I think I’m in love.”
No kidding. Join the club and pick a number, my friend. Because if I’m not already in love with Rhett, I’m well on my way.
Chapter Four
Rhett
I keep my distance from Emmy after I almost kissed her. I still bring her supplies from town, but I leave them in the box by the door under the pretense of not wanting to interrupt her writing. I came close to tasting her. Dangerously close.
Two days later, I’m still not sure whether or not I’m mad or glad about that fact.
Because even with the distance of forty-eight hours and a solid oak door, I can still remember the way her body felt in my arms. And no amount of swimming in the cold lake or jerking off seems to ease my desire for her.
I’m debating whether or not I should make good on my offer to show her around when my phone beeps with a new text.
I made too much spaghetti and meatballs? Are you in? - Emmy
My stomach rumbles at the mention of food. I should say no. Grab something from the mini fridge. But spending half an hour eating a proper meal in the company of the most beautiful woman on the planet is too tempting to decline.
I’m at the door to my cabin a minute later. It swings open, and a smiling Emmy greets me.
“Hey, neighbor. Glad you could make it.”
One whiff of the food on the stove—and her floral perfume—has my mouth watering.
“Sorry to show up empty-handed. But if you give me a minute, I can change that.”
I press on the wall next to the door, and a panel swings out revealing a hidden compartment.
She gasps as I pull out a bottle of red wine. “You have a secret booze stash?”
“Along with a few other essentials.”
Taking the bottle, she shakes her head. “You’ve been holding out on me.”
“It never hurts to have a few surprises up your sleeve.”
“You’re clever, clever, clever.”
I can’t help but puff up a little at her praise.
Taking the bottle back, I open it and pour a couple of glasses while Emmy dishes up our plates. If the food tastes half as good as it smells, it’ll be the best meal I’ve had in a long time.
Seated at the counter, Emmy raises her glass to me. “Cheers.”
“What are we toasting to?”
Her brow wrinkles for a moment while she considers. Then a grin spreads across her face.
“How about to finding the words?”
I clink my glass with hers and drink.
I look down at the heaping plate of pasta. “This looks incredible.”
“Old family recipe.” She laughs then. The joy flowing out of her is contagious. She must be having a good run with her writing. “Actually, that’s not true. My parents, while wonderful, weren’t much of cooks.”
I twirl spaghetti around my fork and take a bite. I close my eyes, savoring the explosion of flavor. “Then where’d you learn? Because this is awesome.”
“Same place most people learn these days. Videos online.”
“Those must be some videos.” I fill my fork again and take another bite. Then another.
Realizing I’m being rude by shoveling the food into my mouth without any conversation, I reach of a piece of garlic bread. “So the writing is going well?”
“Really well.” She raises a fork to her own lips then freezes. “If I tell you something, will you promise not to be mad.”
“You didn’t set anything else on fire did you?”
She shakes her head, and the red curls bounce over her shoulders. “But what I have to confess might be kind of shocking.”
Now I’m intrigued. I nod for her to continue.
“You’d think becoming a best-seller would make things better. In a lot of ways it has. I was able to quit my boring desk job. I bought my own condo. But now every time I release a book, there are expectations. Once you top a chart, the publishers expect you to keep doing that. Anything less is failure.” She picks at her food with her fork, nudging a meatball around the pile of pasta.
“Before I came here, I was having a really tough time figuring out my story. Especially the hero. I couldn’t come up with a way to make him stand out. To make him special.” She glances up at me then. “Then, after we met—after you came to my rescue not once but twice—I could see him. So clearly, I haven’t been able to stop writing about him.”
I stare into her brown eyes. “What are you saying?”
“I may have . . . borrowed a few of your traits and given them to my hero.”
“You made me the hero in your story?”
She cringes and gives an apologetic look. “Are you mad?”
Well then. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel about that. But, it’s kind of cool, I guess. I lift a shoulder. “I’m glad I could help.”
“So you’re not mad?”
“I’m flattered.” I grin as her face relaxes. “I have a little confession of my own.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”
“I’ve read a couple of your books.”
Her cheeks flush. “Really?”
“My mama thought I should give them a try.” I turn my attention back to my food, but I can see she’s still watching me, waiting for me to elaborate. “I like them.”
“You like them?”
“Well, yeah. What’s not to like? A guy and a girl meet. They get into some trouble. They get out of it. They bone a few times. Everyone goes home happy.”
“I should have you write my back cover copy.”
I chuckle at that. “Granted, I’m no expert. Until a few days ago, I’d never read more than a chapter or two of a romance novel. But you’re a talented writer.”
“Now I’m the one who’s flattered.”
I stab a meatball with my fork. “Do you really buy into it all?”
“Buy into what?”
“You know, falling in love and happily ever afters.”
“I do. I think love might be the most powerful, beautiful force in the world if you let it in.” She stares at me closely. “I take it you don’t.”
It’s impossible to miss the sharp edge in her tone. Still, I opened this can of words. I might as well see it through.
“It’s just not very practical is it?”
She arches an eyebrow. Those full lips of hers purse together, practically calling for me to kiss them. After another minute she shakes her head.
“It’s kind of weird you aren’t more of a believer in romance.”
“How’s that?”
“Because of your name.” When I just lift a shoulder and stare, she grins. “Your mama named you after one of the most romantic heroes in literature.”
“Yeah, and he was a tool.”
She shakes her head at that. “You’re such a man.”
We go back to eating our meal in silence. There’s so much tension in the air, you could scoop it up, serve it in a cone, and call it ice cream. See this, this is the reason it’s best if I don’t get into relationships. Someone always ends up disappointed. Then you look somewhere else for affection—or even just a roll in the bed—and you hurt the other.
I glare at my empty plate and fold my arms across my chest.
Emmy pushes her own plate aside and drains her glass.
At last she speaks. “So you’ve been reading my books?”
“Yeah.”
“Besides questioning the validity of love and romance, did you take anything away from them?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know . . . ” She puts the glass down and turns toward me. She hesitates a moment, then her hands rest on my chest. “Maybe one of the parts where the characters aren’t in
their dresses and coats.”
I swallow hard. “Yeah. Those were pretty good.”
She licks her lips, and my cock springs to life.
“What if for tonight we get naked and pretend that romance novels could actually happen in real life?”
In that instance, my resolve to keep my distance breaks. No matter how it ends—and it can only end in disappointment—I can’t deny my body any longer.
Emmy
His hand shoots out and grabs the back of my head pulling me to him as his lips capture mine in a searing kiss. My toes curl against the stool, and I grip tighter onto the front of his flannel shirt. His tongue slips into my mouth, connecting with mine, sending a thrill of desire down my spine. I feel him shudder under my palms.
It’d dizzying, the power his body has over mine. The power mine has over his.
And we’re just getting started.
With my tongue still dueling with his, my hands wander to the waist of his jeans. I tug at his shirt, pulling the ends of the flannel out. My fingers make quick work of undoing the buttons and sliding the shirt over his shoulders. My hands reach for his skin but connect with an undershirt. With a groan of frustration, I tear my lips from his long enough to pull the t-shirt over his head, tossing it on the floor.
We’re both on our feet now. My shirt joins his on the floor. Rhett’s thumbs undo my jeans. Then he inches them over my thighs until they slide down my legs, pooling at my feet. I step out of them and kick them aside.
We glide across the room as his mouth continues to possess mine. I let out an “oof” when my back connects with the wood panel of the wall. He takes advantage of my distraction to move his lips over my exposed skin.
It trails the curve of my neck. He takes a nip at my shoulder before he leans down. His mouth moves to my breast, tugging at the nipple through the lace of my bra. My back arches as my fingers dive into his hair, holding him closer. His free hand slides up my thigh, pushing the thin strip of my panties aside as his fingers touch me.
I cry out as he reaches my heat. He slides in one finger. Then two. My hips move against him. I grip hold of his hair harder as his mouth continues its exploration of my body.