by Sophie Stern
“Sorry,” I put my hands down and awkwardly shove them in my jeans. “I’ll go now. I was just trying to find a place to stay for the night.”
“Not from around here, huh?” He asks, only it’s obvious he already knew that. Why did he bother to ask, then? Is he trying to see if I’ll lie? Honeypot seems like your stereotypical small town, from what I can see of it. Lying is almost certainly frowned upon, and I don’t need to start off on the wrong foot, especially if I end up hiding out here.
Maybe it’s the perfect place to get my life back together.
Maybe it’s the perfect place to recover from Dustin.
“Just passing through,” I tell the officer.
“Is that so?”
“Yes, but I can see this place is closed. For repairs, apparently.”
The cop chuckles, his voice filling the empty air. It’s a nice sound: a kind sound. I’m caught off guard for a moment by just how genuine he seems. I don’t feel scared now that we’re talking. My first instinct was to run, yeah, but something about him makes me feel comfortable, safe. These are things I haven’t felt in a very long time and they are feelings I’d like to hold onto.
“It’s been a long time in coming,” he says. “Between you and me, I don’t know that they’ll ever re-open, but you didn’t hear that from me.”
“Our secret,” I say with a grin.
“Listen, there are a few other places you can stay. There’s a bed and breakfast, but honestly, I can’t suggest you go there. The owner is a real fusser, if you know what I mean.”
“What do you mean?”
“She goes to bed early and if you go knocking on her door, at this hour? She’ll have my hide and probably my badge, as well.”
“Sounds serious.”
“You have no idea.”
“Any other options?” There has to be someplace in Honeypot I can stay. It’s late, yeah, but there has to be something. Somewhere.
The cop looks me up and down for a second, then nods.
“There’s a ranch a few miles down the road,” he says. “A couple of brothers added some cabins on their land. They rent them out to tourists and people who want to get away. They usually have activities and whatnot on the weekends, but during the week, the place is basically deserted.”
“Sounds nice.”
“It’s definitely quiet.”
He gives me the address and I punch it into my phone’s GPS. He confirms the location when I show him, and I thank him for his help.
“So, should I go up to the main office, or what?”
“It’s late,” he says, eyeing me, and I can’t tell if he’s suspicious that I’m driving on my own so late at night and obviously without a plan. Honeypot is off the main highway, but I wasn’t driving on the main highway, and the dust on my car, if he looks that way, is obvious. Gravel roads aren’t exactly good for being discreet when it comes to evidence left behind.
“Yes.”
“Don’t go up to the main house. You’ll wake the baby. You don’t want to wake the baby. Wyatt’s crabby when he doesn’t get enough sleep, and Hope will make him stay up with the baby. Instead, go knock on the door of Cabin 1. The guy’s name is Micah. He’ll get you set up. If he gives you any grief, you tell him Jason sent you.”
“Nice to meet you Jason. I’m Evelyn.” Crap. I should have lied about my name.
“Evelyn,” he holds his hand out and shakes mine. He looks like he’s about to let me go and head back to his car, but he pauses for a second. “And it might not be my place, miss, but let me say that if I ever find out the son-of-a-bitch that laid a hand on you, I’ll beat the fucker myself.”
He lets go of my hand and tips his hat, then heads back to his car.
I stare at him for a second and my hands flutter to my eye. It’s swollen and probably looks even worse than when I left home, but in the midst of our conversation, I had completely forgotten.
Jason treated me like a real, genuine person, and I forgot about my pain for a little bit.
Only now I remember and it all comes rushing back. I hurry to my car, eager once again to get away. I’ll have to talk to this Micah guy, but if I’m lucky, I can hole up in one of these little rental cabins until my money runs out or I come up with a plan: whichever comes first.
Chapter 3
Micah
I’m still awake when my cell rings after midnight. This doesn’t mean I don’t grumble as I go to answer it. The person calling me, Jason, is a cop in town. He’s one of the best and one of my favorite guys, but that doesn’t mean I want him calling me at all hours of the night.
Still, a phone call from a cop shouldn’t go unanswered. Despite the tension between James and my older brother, Wyatt, I like the guy a lot. Wyatt dated James’ sister, Georgia, long ago. I think James still blames Wyatt for the relationship’s failure, but whether or not that’s accurate, I can’t say.
All I can say is that if Jason Edwards is calling me in the middle of the night, he’s probably got a good reason.
“Yeah,” I answer the call.
“Sorry if I woke you.”
“You didn’t.
“I know.”
“Then why’d you bother apologizing?”
“I need a favor.”
“A favor?” Jason Edwards doesn’t ask for favors. He gives them. He’s the go-to guy if you need anything in Honeypot: a place to stay, a job, a car. He’ll help anyone who comes his way that has a willing spirit and a positive attitude.
“Yeah. Something strange happened outside Bev’s place.”
“The motel?”
“The one and only.”
“Thought it was closed for repairs.”
“It is.”
“So what happened?”
Jason sighs, and I can practically see him taking his hat off and running his hand through his shaggy dark hair. For a tiger, he’s a pretty chill guy, but even he gets riled up sometimes.
“There was a girl.”
“Is that so?” Now I’m interested. Jason Edwards riled up over a girl? This I’ve got to hear. The last I heard, he was knocking boots with Arielle Greg, the social worker, which made sense because they work together all the time, but what do I know? I never thought things were serious between those two.
“Someone did a number on her, Micah.”
At that, I growl. No one has the right to hit a woman, or anyone, but mostly a woman. Shifters might be fiercely loyal and overprotective, but no one can say we don’t take care of our own. I don’t care if she’s from out of town or not, but if a woman needs help, we’re going to take care of her.
“Anyone I know?”
“Not likely. She’s human and from out of town. My guess is she’s on the run from someone and needs to keep things low-key, if you know what I mean.”
“This isn’t a shelter, Jason.”
“I’m not asking it to be. Just give her a place to stay. You have those empty cabins, right?”
“Yeah,” we’re often booked, but there’s an empty one all week without anyone scheduled to stay there.
“Do me a favor. Give her one. Give it to her cheap and send me the bill for the difference, okay?”
“Edwards…”
“Just do it, Micah.”
He ends the call and I stare at my cell for a second, not quite believing the exchange we just had. Jason fucking Edwards and his damn cat heart of gold. I always thought bears were good people, but tigers? They’re loyal to a damn fault.
Realizing the girl is probably going to show up soon, I figure I should look presentable. I pull on pajama pants and a faded tee. I’m not going to win any fashion awards, but I look okay. I look presentable enough.
Then I sit and I wait.
Who is this girl who has captured Jason’s heart? Who is this darling that someone would dare hurt? I fist my hands and pace my cabin. I don’t know anything yet. I don’t know anything about this woman Edwards sent me except that she needs safety, anonymity. She needs a place no one can find her.
She needs me.
It feels nice, really, that Jason chose me out of all the shifters in Honeypot. Honesty, when someone needs a place to stay, there are a lot of choices. Even if staying anonymous is an issue, Jason could have handled this a lot of other ways. He could have suggested she head to the next exit off the highway and stay at a hotel there. He could have woken up cranky Mrs. Marsh and asked her to rent a room out. Yeah, the old woman would have fussed and complained for years to come, but it was an option.
There were options.
Hell, Jason even could have called up his sister, sweet Georgia, and asked her to lend a hand to a stranger.
He trusts me, though.
He chose me.
For me, that trust is something that’s been hard earned. I’m not about to do anything to mess it up. I hate to admit it, but I like to feel needed. I like feeling that I’m good enough to care for another person. I like knowing I’m trusted by the tiger.
A few more minutes pass and I hear the sound of an engine coming up the driveway. It’s her. I know it’s her. It’s late and no one else would be coming out for a social call at this time of night. It’s the girl.
I listen intently. My shifter hearing is good enough that I can hear even from inside my cabin. If my parents didn’t sleep like the dead of night, they probably would have woken up when she drove up the driveway. Fortunately, they’re heavy sleepers. Bears usually are.
I can’t resist a peek out my window, and I pull aside the blinds enough to look at where she parks beside my truck. After a minute, she turns off the car, but she doesn’t get out. What’s she doing in there?
Is she second guessing herself? Is she wondering whether or not she made the right choice? Is she worrying that I won’t take care of her? Is she afraid I’ll be mad about being woken up in the middle of the night?
Just when I think maybe I should go to her instead of waiting inside, she gets out of the car and I catch my breath.
The curvy redhead with the sweet, black librarian-style glasses turns toward the cabin. In the moonlight, I can see her clearly, even if she can’t see me yet.
Fuck, I should have dressed nicer, or at least showered, or maybe both. She’s wearing a thin t-shirt that accentuates her ample bosom and soft curves and a pair of jeans so tight I just want to tear them off.
She’s incredible.
But then I notice her eye, and once more, my hands fist. Who the fuck would hit a woman? Who the hell would hit one this sweet? Even from here, I can tell she’s sweet, innocent. She has that look about her. She looks sad and lonely and she reminds me of myself.
There’s something else, though. She steels herself and begins to walk toward the cabin, and I realize that this woman isn’t just sweet: she’s incredibly brave.
What has Jason gotten me into?
Chapter 4
Evelyn
Cabin 1.
I have to go to Cabin 1.
Pulling my purse higher up on my shoulder, I force myself to move toward the tiny cabins. This is the cutest little row of guest houses I’ve ever seen and if I was here under any other circumstances, I’d seriously consider staying forever. This place is incredible.
Jason wasn’t kidding when he said this was the place to be. I thought he was suggesting some run-down campground that operated under the table, but this? This is insane. There’s a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach when I realize it’s probably also out of my price range.
Maybe they’ll give me a half-price deal since technically, I’m only staying half of the night.
Yeah, right. I got lucky exactly one time when that cop gave me directions. Why should I think I’d be lucky twice?
I move slowly toward Cabin 1. The old guy who lives here is probably crotchety and cranky. The last thing he wants is to have a young, damaged, broken woman showing up on his doorstep with a sob story, yet here I am. Here I am.
“Hi, I’m Evelyn. You don’t know me, but Jason said you might have a room to rent,” I practice saying out loud as I near the cabin. It’s getting closer and closer, and I realize I sound like a huge idiot.
I try again.
“Hey, Micah, right? I’m Evelyn. I realize you don’t know me, but your friend Jason said this was the place to be.”
Fuck.
I sound like a huge dork.
I take a few more deep breaths, then step up onto the porch. The cabin itself is pretty small. I’d guess it’s a single room with an attached bathroom. I don’t see any outdoor bath houses or shower rooms, so I assume each cabin has its own bathroom.
That’s nice. I like that. These places seem quaint, but cozy. They seem homey. They seem safe, and safe is definitely something I can use right now. Honestly, after what happened with me and Dustin, I should be shaking in my boots. Part of me is. Part of me knows not all men are like him.
I got lucky growing up. My dad is an amazing man. I just wish I hadn’t pushed him away these past few months. There’s no doubt in my mind he’d take me in if I called him. He’d help me file a restraining order and he’d help me stay safe. He’d help me get reestablished as a responsible, independent adult.
Only, I did push him away.
And now things are fucked up and messy.
My dad is getting old. He doesn’t need messy. He doesn’t need to know how badly his daughter screwed up. He doesn’t need to know how badly Dustin beat me. He doesn’t need to know the guy I was supposed to marry turned out to be a psycho.
The truth is I never really loved Dustin. I was in love with the idea of marriage, with the idea that someone really liked me. I was in love with the idea of being a bride, of being wanted, of being special.
I was in love with this idea that was completely fake and made up.
I wasn’t in love with him.
I reach the door and stand there for a second. This is stupid. Why am I hesitating? The light is on inside: I can see the soft yellow glow from the blinds in the window, yet I’m nervous when it comes to actually knocking. Chances are he already knows I’m coming, already knows I’m here. He probably heard my car and he definitely heard my loud walking up the porch steps and over to the door.
But this is going to change everything.
I’m going to meet this guy and he’s going to give me a place to stay, presumably, and then what?
How am I going to explain my messed-up face?
How much should I reveal about myself?
What if I can’t afford to stay here?
Finally, I knock twice, then jerk my hand back as if I was burned. This shouldn’t be as scary as it is. Knocking on a door shouldn’t be horrifying, yet somehow it feels like the biggest step in the world.
I’m essentially inserting myself into this poor old man’s life, like, “Here, have a problem.”
And I’m the problem.
“Just a moment,” a voice calls out, and I cringe. Maybe he really was asleep. It’s super late, after all. Maybe I should rethink this. Maybe I should-
But then the door opens, and my jaw hits the ground because I’m staring at a rock hard set of abs covered only by a thin shirt. I shouldn’t be staring. I shouldn’t be doing this. I should look up. Yeah, really. I should look up because this is a real man with real feelings and a really, really beautiful body.
Swallowing hard, I force myself to look up at the man who is standing in the doorway. How tall is he? Six feet? More? He must be more. He fills the entire doorframe. Why is he only wearing pajama pants and that travesty of a shirt? It’s not really a shirt. I can see every ripple of every muscle as I stare at him.
“Hello,” the man says, and I realize I must have gone to the wrong cabin. There’s no way this is the old guy I was searching for.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I’m so embarrassed. I was looking for Micah, but you obviously aren’t him, and I must have woken you up. I’m sorry.”
I turn to leave, but I feel his hand on my arm.
“Wait,” he says. A shiver shoots through
my body at his touch. Electricity. Fire. Arousal. I feel so many things from just that one touch: things I’ve never felt with a man, things I didn’t know I was capable of feeling.
I turn back toward the man, but he doesn’t drop his hand from my arm. He should. It’s weird to touch strangers, isn’t it? Isn’t it kind of impolite? Only, nothing feels impolite with this man. If he wants to throw me down on his bed and ravish me right now, I won’t protest. I’ll trade in my virginity in the next ten minutes if it means he’ll keep touching me. He’s got his hand on me now and I don’t want him to ever pull it away.
Ever.
“What?” I ask him.
“You found me.”
“What?”
“I’m Micah.”
“But I thought…”
“What did you think?”
“I thought you were an old man: an old man who owned some cabins.”
He chuckles at this. I don’t think he was expecting my much-too-honest answer. Truthfully, I wasn’t expecting it, either. Usually, I have a little bit more tact. Usually, I have some self-control. What is it about this man that’s got me all tied up in knots? Why do I feel this deep connection with him? I don’t want him to stop touching me. I’ll be okay if he just never stops.
“Well, isn’t that interesting?” He says with a smile. “You got a name, darling?”
Darling.
He just called me “darling.”
He didn’t call me, “Hey you.” He didn’t call me a bitch or a whore or stupid. He called me darling. I try not to, but the tears come anyway and start streaming down my face.
“Hey, none of that, now. I didn’t mean to upset you,” he says, and wipes up the tears with his finger. He gets a little too close to my black eye and I hiss at the contact with my tender skin.
Micah immediately notices and pulls his hand back.
“Damn, I’m sorry, sweetie. Come inside. Let’s get some ice on that.” He guides me into the cabin and closes the door behind us. He guides me over to his bed and helps me sit on it, then he starts fumbling around in his mini-fridge.
I should look around the room. I should be nosy, curious. That’s what I should do. I should take advantage of this rare opportunity to see what I’m getting myself into, but I can’t. All I can do is look at him, at Micah.