Anything For Love

by Melissa Foster

  She glanced over her shoulder, her fingers still pecking away, and excitement brimmed in her eyes as she said, “You’re way better than a blow-up doll.”

  Chapter Three

  THE SUN CREPT into the sky like a sloth ascending a tree, unhurried and determined, pushing away the stubborn pre-dawn gray as the bright ball of fire rose toward the heavens. Ribbons of citrus splashed over the mountains, spilling into the fields. Light spread over the terrace where Beau stood leaning against the railing as he took in the gorgeous morning, thinking about Charlotte. She was a puzzle to him, like a set of architectural drawings that had been torn into bits and mixed up, in need of sorting. Her wing was more like an underequipped apartment. The entrance led directly into a living room, outfitted with standard resort-style furniture. It didn’t feel like a home, or even like she hung out there. A quick glance had revealed no worn spots or dips in the cushions indicating her favorite place to chill. In a way, it reminded him of his own house, where he kept his things but never spent much time.

  Her kitchen—if he could call it that—was just inside the door to her suite and off to the left. It was as sparse as her answers had been. She had a hot plate, a microwave, a coffee machine, and a small refrigerator, which was nearly empty save for a slew of water bottles, an insane amount of Luscious Leanna’s Sweet Treats jam, a few containers of yogurt, and a bowl full of eggs. He’d poked around in the cabinets and found a container of instant coffee, a few packets of sugar, enough protein bars to feed a family of five, a box of pancake mix—no syrup—a few cans of soup, and half a sleeve of crackers. He’d heated up two cans of soup for dinner on the stone barbecue, but when he’d offered some to Charlotte, she’d waved him away and said, Can’t break my stride, as she pounded that keyboard. He’d made the rounds of the inn, locking no less than nine doors in the process.

  The woman needed a security system. Or at least a dog.

  Or a man.

  He sipped the acidic coffee. If ever a woman needed a man around, it was Charlotte. He’d never met anyone like her before. She had totally used him last night, or she was just enjoying fucking with him. Either way, he was nobody’s fool. Two could play at that game. Hell, it might even be a good distraction from the memories he was trying to escape. The memories that had haunted him last night and had warred with fantasies of Charlotte straddling that damn blow-up doll. Except he was lying beneath her, and they were both naked. In the dark of night, a collage of terror and fantasies had played out in his mind. Tory’s sweet face flashed seconds before the site of the accident that had stolen her life, and then Charlotte had appeared, skipping in a fucking meadow. What the hell that meant, he had no idea, but he’d woken up at the crack of dawn in a full sweat.

  His thoughts turned to his to-do list, at the top of which was fixing the damage his cousins’ wives had caused in the suite upstairs the weekend of Josh’s wedding, which had taken place at the inn. From what Beau had been told, a few of Josh’s sisters-in-law and his mother-in-law had consumed too much alcohol and had had an accidental run-in with brownies laced with marijuana. The women had taken it upon themselves to try to perform an exorcism on one of the supposedly haunted rooms on the second floor while the men slept. It sounded like something Jillian and her friends would do without the weed.

  He quickly ran through more of his to-do list, which included cleaning up the main kitchen in the inn, so he had a place to prepare meals, and getting down the mountain to buy food. But first he needed to clear his head. A walk usually did the trick, calming the ghosts that trailed him like shadows.

  He set his coffee cup in the kitchen to take care of later and descended the terrace steps to the yard. When Charlotte had shown him the workshop in one of the old barns yesterday, he’d noticed a few other trails and decided to check them out.

  As he came around the side of the inn, he spotted Charlotte walking toward the woods a good distance ahead. She wore knee-high red rubber boots and an oversized gray sweater that hung off one shoulder, covering only to the middle of her butt, revealing maroon panties and sexy butt cheeks. Some of her hair was pulled up in a clip, but tangles stuck out like snakes trying to escape a nest, and a few long tresses dribbled down her back. She carried a basket in her right hand, swinging it as she walked through the long grass. She disappeared into the woods, and he quickened his pace, wondering where she could possibly be going dressed like that.

  He followed the narrow trail over dead leaves and broken branches and heard her singing “Like a Prayer” loud and off-key. She sang about life being a mystery, and he could easily change those lyrics to Charlotte is a mystery. He chuckled, wondering what kind of alternate universe existed in her head for her to be so free and unencumbered, even if a little scattered. Although, to be able to write hour after hour as she did, scattered didn’t make sense.

  She entered a clearing, and he hung back, watching her dance and twirl as she belted out the lyrics. Her arms floated up toward the sky like wings, lifting her sweater with it and flashing a few inches of enticing skin above her hip-hugging panties. When she sang the chorus, she broke into some sort of stomping breakdance.

  Either that or she was possessed by the devil.

  She tipped her chin up toward the sky, screech-singing about how she’d take him there like a prayer. He stood in the trees, mesmerized by her wild, frantic, carefree movements.

  Suddenly she went silent. He listened more intently. She was humming and wiggling her shoulders and hips as she slipped through a band of bushes and disappeared out of sight.

  “Charlotte?” He took off after her, needing to see more of her.

  As he pushed through the bushes, she slammed into him with an oomph! His arms circled her, and their eyes connected with the force of lightning, earning a breathy gasp. It was the sexiest sound he’d ever heard. Her body was hot against him despite the cool morning air. Her lips parted, but she didn’t say a word. Her gaze turned sultry, flooding his body with even more awareness of her softness, her sweet, feminine scent. He had the overwhelming urge to kiss her. Her tempting lips curved up in the same sinful smile she’d flashed last night—just before messing with his head. Not this time, shortcake. He tightened his hold on her.

  Her eyes widened, and she clamped her mouth shut.

  “Where are you going so scantily dressed?”

  Her eyes narrowed again. “Where are you going so…?” Her gaze dragged down his T-shirt to the waist of his jeans. “Overdressed?”

  She was good, he’d give her that, but he was better. Holding her gaze, he pressed his hand flat against her back, bringing their bodies flush from leg to chest, and her eyes darkened.

  “I forgot, you prefer your men naked.” He reached over his back with one hand and tugged his shirt off, earning a lustful gasp. He dropped his shirt on top of a bush, enjoying the feel of her soft curves molding to his hard frame. “What do you call that thing you use to inflate your boy toys?” He lowered his face so their mouths were a whisper apart, and her breathing hitched. “Oh yeah. Your mouth.”

  She swallowed hard, her fingers pressing into his skin. She blinked several times, and then her gorgeous eyes narrowed and she said, “Good to know you have a thing for my mouth.”

  He was pretty sure she was fucking with him, and still his body flamed, turned on by her prurience as much as her sass and confidence. She had the sexiest mouth he’d ever seen, but this was a game to her, and he was about to show her who was King of the Mountain. He threaded his fingers into her hair and brushed his lips over her cheek, catching another whiff of her feminine scent.

  “I wonder if you taste as sweet as you smell.” He felt her shudder in his arms, and he slid his hand to the curve of her ass, earning a little squeak of shock. “I do have a thing for silk panties,” he growled directly into her ear, and her fingernails dug into his flesh. “But you should think about the vibes you’re giving off and the message you’re sending me. I could strip you naked right here.”

  He let those word
s sink in, tightening his hold, though she wasn’t trying to get away, and he continued his torturous game, driving his don’t-fuck-with-me point home. “I could hold your hands down as I bury myself so deep inside you, you’ll feel me tomorrow. Is that what you want, shortcake?”

  He tugged gently on her hair, angling her glassy eyes up toward his. She had the look of a woman waiting to be kissed. Wanting to be taken. He had the urge to slide his fingers between her legs and feel how much she wanted him. But he was sure this was a game to her, and Beau didn’t do games.

  With his eyes locked on hers, he said, “I am not a man you want to fuck with.”

  He reluctantly released her, and the breath rushed from her lungs. She stumbled back, her hands hanging limply by her sides.

  “I don’t lose,” he said sternly. “Ever.”

  Only he had. Once. Guilt slithered through him like a viper waiting to strike.

  He forced those ugly emotions down deep and said, “We need to have a talk about security.”

  Her eyes darted away. “Channing,” she said breathlessly.

  “No more games, Charlotte. You want my attention? You call me Beau.”

  “No!” She pointed through the bush-lined path to a grassy area where a big white chicken was pecking at the ground. “Channing’s loose! I have to get her!”

  Three more chickens ran by, and Charlotte took off after them. “Oh no! All my Chickendales are loose!”

  Beau uttered a curse and followed her. “Chickendales?”

  Charlotte was chasing several chickens in front of a small stone coop with a too-short mint-colored door. A rustic chicken pen was attached to the side and back of the coop, framed with rough timber and wrapped in wire mesh. Branches ran in all directions between the frames to keep the mesh in place. Above the mesh-and-branch door to the pen was a wooden sunburst also made from branches and limbs. A quick sweep of the structure showed a hole in the front lower left. It looked like Charlotte had tried to patch it using leafy branches.

  “Don’t just stand there!” Charlotte pleaded. “I can’t lose Channing, Matt, or Joe!”

  “You do know these chickens are female, right?” he said as he strode toward her.

  “Of course I know that! I named them after the Magic Mike characters.”

  A rooster crowed from somewhere off to the left, and Charlotte’s face crumbled into genuine sadness that caused a twinge in Beau’s chest.

  “Oh no! Jason Momoa got out, too?” She ran in the direction of the sound.

  Beau caught her around the waist with one arm, lifting her feet off the ground. “Hold up, shortcake.”

  “I have to get them before a predator does!”

  “The more you run, the farther they’ll scatter. Calm down.”

  She turned a death stare on him. “Do not tell a woman to calm down unless you want to be castrated.” She pushed at his arm. “Let me go!”

  “Jesus. Can you calm—settle…relax for one second?”

  She crossed her arms in a huff, her legs dangling above the ground.

  “We need a plan to corner them one by one and catch them.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Pantsers don’t do plans.”

  “What do pants have to do with this? If you want my help, it starts with a plan. I’m going to set you on your feet, but you need to stay still or you’ll scare them. Haven’t they gotten out before?”

  “Yes! That’s why I need to get them. Last time it took me hours of chasing, until I finally gave up, and they…” Her voice trailed off.

  “They…?”

  She looked away and mumbled, “Came close enough for me to pick them up.”

  He chuckled as a big brown chicken came around the side of the coop.

  “Oh no! Not Duncan!”

  Beau’s chest constricted. “Duncan,” he repeated before he could stop himself.

  “Duncan Raz!” She pushed at his arm belted around her waist. “You’re holding me too tight. I can’t breathe!”

  BEAU’S FACE BLANCHED, and he dropped Charlotte like a hot potato, as opposed to the way he’d reluctantly released her in the bushes, when he’d looked like he’d wanted to do all the naughty things he’d described. Every inch of his body was strung tight and impressively hard. He’d made her completely forget that she was supposed to be taking mental notes about the things he did and said to use in her writing. And now he looked like she’d kicked him in the gut, making her forget her book altogether.

  She touched his arm and he flinched. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine. Let’s get the chickens.”

  “Chickendales,” she corrected, trying to make him smile, but he just ground his teeth together.

  After what seemed like an eternity, but in reality was probably only a few minutes, Beau cleared his throat, his dark, calculating eyes taking in the location of each of the chickens and the rooster. Charlotte watched in amazement as he formulated, and carried out, the simplest of plans: throwing feed on the ground, then plucking up the chickens one by one as they ate. He closed the opening between the coop and the pen and put them in the coop. Then he strode toward her, shirtless and authoritative.

  “Thank you,” she said, looking around for her basket. “I can’t believe they got out again.”

  “You thought those branches would keep them in? Or keep a predator out?”

  She set her hands on her hips, challenging the silly girl lilt in his voice. “It was a temporary fix, but yes. I saw my grandfather do it once. Only his way worked.”

  He nodded. “Is that who built this coop?”

  “No. My great-grandfather built the stone coop. My grandfather built the pen.”

  “It’s unique. I’ll give him that.” He glanced at the structure.

  “It goes perfectly with Snow White’s cabin, and I think it’s beautiful.”

  He arched a brow. “Snow White’s cabin?”

  “That’s what I call it. My great-grandmother loved fairy tales, so my great-grandfather renovated the original cabin to look like the house from the story.”

  His gaze turned serious again. “That’s actually really sweet. I’d like to see it sometime. But right now I want to get this pen fixed up before you lose your chickens.”

  “Chickend—”

  “Yeah, what’s up with that? Is everything in your life a game? A fantasy? A fairy tale?” he asked.

  “Aren’t you judgmental?”

  “Sorry. Just grounded in reality.” He turned a hot gaze on her as he crouched by the hole in the pen. “And I don’t like being messed with.”

  “Oh, like you weren’t messing with me in the bushes?” She crossed her arms, staring him down.

  He rose to his full height, towering over her. “Just playing your game, sweetheart.”

  “Oh, really? My game? Because from the feel of things, you sure seemed to enjoy it.”

  His biceps twitched. “What’s not to enjoy when I’ve got a gorgeous woman’s body pressed against mine? You’re playing with fire.” His gaze dropped to her panties, and her insides sizzled. “Maybe this is how you get your men. Maybe you like fire.”

  “My men?” She laughed. “You have no idea who I am. Real men don’t live up to the heroes I create. I wouldn’t waste my time with them.”

  “Then why screw with my head?”

  She was pretty sure he would not appreciate knowing it was the cure for her writer’s block, so she said, “I wasn’t screwing with you.”

  He stepped forward and hauled her against him. “Is this what you want? For me to take your panties off right here and have my way with you?”

  The challenge in his eyes drove his point home, but she knew he wouldn’t do anything without her consent. He might have serious eyes that wreaked havoc with her girly parts, but they were honest eyes.

  She schooled her expression, hoping to reclaim the upper hand. The problem was, being in his arms felt really good, and she’d seen, and felt, a flash of something sad and hauntingly familiar in him when he’d released he
r like a hot potato. She had a feeling his gruffness wasn’t caused by her teasing, despite what he claimed. But she wasn’t as good with emotional situations in person as she was on paper, where she could rewrite a scene dozens of times until it bled or wept or lusted off the page. It didn’t help that she was afraid to stop the ruse and lose her muse, and equally afraid not to, because she wanted to know what she’d said or done to cause the sadness she’d seen in him. Her game had just become real.

  He released her a little too roughly and said, “I didn’t think so.”

  Chapter Four

  BEAU SPENT THE morning fixing the chicken pen, and as long as he was down there, he cleaned out the coop, which looked like it hadn’t been cleaned for a month. Every time he caught sight of that damn brown chicken, guilt and anger stacked up inside him. It was like the guilt gods had it in for him. Even almost two thousand miles from home he couldn’t escape his memories. The discomfort of his past battled once again with whatever the hell was going on between him and Charlotte. That was another situation he wasn’t sure he was ready to deal with. She definitely turned him on, even if she was frustrating as hell.

  After fixing the pen, he changed the bulb in Charlotte’s office while she was in the shower. Then he patched the drywall in the suite upstairs that had been damaged the weekend of Josh’s wedding and put an oil-based primer over the lipstick in the bathroom where the girls had written on the walls. Those must have been some potent marijuana brownies, or they’d consumed massive amounts of alcohol, for them to have caused such havoc. More than likely it wasn’t the chemicals but rather a case of women letting loose and having a little too much fun. He tackled a few of the smaller items on his list, then set to work on the kitchen. Charlotte had told him she had housekeepers come in once a month to clean the inn top to bottom, but some of the cabinets had leaves and claw marks inside. He’d heard from his cousins that raccoons had been nesting in the kitchen. He wanted to do a complete inspection of the inn and make sure there were no critters partying in clever places and no way for them to get in.