by Pam Godwin
I rush through the shower, pull on one of his t-shirts, and grab the tube of ointment. When I open the door to the bedroom, the distinctive scent of weed hits my nose.
Stretched out on the bed beside the open window, he lies on his back, hands folded behind his head, with a joint between his lips.
He only smokes when his aches are more than he can bear. I’m not fond of the smell, but my God, he’s sexy when he’s all sprawled out and mellow, like a lazy lion. The sheet twists around his hips, the rest of him bare and utterly at ease.
I set the cream on the nightstand and pick up his phone. Scrolling through his playlist, I select Might As Well Get Stoned by Chris Stapleton and gently sway as the song floats through the room.
“You overdid it today.” I join him on the bed, slotting my legs beneath his head so he can use my lap as a pillow. “Then you overdid it again tonight. You should’ve told me you were hurting.”
The smoldering joint protrudes from the corner of his sexy mouth. He cracks open an eye, squinting up at me through the smoke.
“Why are you so beautiful?” he mumbles, jostling the joint.
“I don’t know how to answer that.” I laugh, running my fingers through his hair. “Why are you so large?”
He glances down at his groin.
“Oh, for the love.” I pluck the spliff from his lips and replace it with a kiss, savoring the taste of smoke and rebellion on his mouth. “I was talking about your personality.”
“You think my personality is…large?”
“Uh, yeah.” I return the weed to his lips, holding it as he takes a drag. “You know what else I think?”
He exhales a thick cloud toward the window and stares up at me expectantly.
“I think three months with you isn’t enough.” The truth tumbles out, and I curse myself for speaking without thinking.
He looks at me, really looks, with golden eyes that see more than they should. His hand floats to my face, caressing a trail of wonder and warmth.
“Cache that.” He directs his gaze at the joint in my hand.
I twist to the side and put it out in the ashtray on the windowsill.
When I turn back, his arms close around me and pull me tight, chest to chest, legs entangled.
“I think a lifetime with you isn’t enough.” He rests his forehead against mine, breathing me in.
He’s right. No amount of time is enough, yet I feel us ticking closer and closer toward expiration. One false move, a slipped word, a knock from the past, and this ends.
The thought makes me cold and hollow inside.
I’ve spent the best three months of my life with him. He takes me dancing at the Big Sugar. Drives me to Tulsa to dine at vegetarian restaurants. Brings me with him every week to visit Lorne. Works beside me all day every day. Sleeps with his arms around me every night. Restrains me, flogs me, chokes me, spanks me, and gives me more pleasure and joy than I ever hoped for.
And he never asks me about my secrets. Never volunteers his own. That’s our limit. The line we silently drew and never cross.
He grabs the tube from the nightstand and lifts my shirt to rub the cool cream into my heated bottom. He kisses my lips while he cares for me, murmurs how beautiful I am as sleep pulls me under.
He shackled my heart with his, and I wish he would lose the key to that lock. The steady beat of his love against mine empowers me, strengthens me, makes me believe that as long as we’re together, it’s enough.
We’re enough.
THREE MONTHS LATER…
I trudge through the snow toward the stable, dragging my boots to create a manageable path for the dawdlers behind me. The icy wind blasts my face, and I laugh back at it, adjusting the Stetson lower on my forehead.
“I hate that you’re enjoying this.” Maybe stomps and groans and releases a frustrated sigh.
Grinning, I turn around to check on her. “All you have to do is ask for help.”
“No way. You always get to be the alpha.” She tugs on the braided lead connected to Chicken’s halter. “I’m determined to be the alpha in this relationship.”
She digs her boots in, yanks on the rope with all her might, and falls on her ass.
I bite down on my lip, but my grin pulls free.
She insisted we take her three-foot-tall, four-hundred-pound weanling for a walk, despite the foot of snow that dumped on us overnight. Chicken decided midway through the hike she wants no part of it and planted her hooves.
Frost clings to her black nose. Her black ears twitch restlessly, the rest of her so white I can’t see where she ends and the snow begins.
“You’ve spoiled her by keeping her in the stable.” I rest my gloved hands on my hips.
“I’d rather she sleep with us.” She climbs to her feet, dusting off her jeans.
“That’s a hard no.”
“Aww, but look how cute she is.” She bends down and presses a kiss between Chicken’s stubborn brown eyes.
I don’t know about the calf, but there’s a fuckton of cuteness happening with Maybe bent over like that. Snowflakes stick to her blond braids beneath the Stetson. White clouds plume from her pink lips, and her puffer coat lifts up her lower back, revealing a round, firm, gorgeous ass in tight jeans.
A groan sounds in my throat, and she straightens, arching a brow at me.
“Here.” I remove a wadded napkin from my coat pocket, unravel a treat, and toss it to her.
“An apple fritter?” She inspects the fried bread in her gloved hand. “Can she eat this?”
“Ask her.” I’ve been sneaking fritters to the damn calf for the past week.
She turns and holds out the treat. “Look what I have, Chicken. Can you eat—?”
Chicken launches for it, and Maybe jumps back with a shriek, hugging the fritter to her chest.
“Oh my God.” She lets out a musical sound of surprise as she stumbles backward to evade the charging calf. “Slow down, you greedy girl.”
She spins on her heel and takes off toward the stable, laughing and tromping through the snow, with Chicken bounding after her.
I catch up with them inside and find Chicken in her stall, gobbling up torn pieces of the fritter in Maybe’s open palms.
“She loves it.” She blinks up at me, her blue eyes as luminous as her smile.
I smile back, overwhelmed by the ripples of warmth swirling through my blood.
Sinking into her body the first time completely redefined my existence. But nothing compares to moments like this, when her happiness is so blinding it crackles the molecules in the air.
When the fritter is gone, she hugs the calf, fusses over the bedding, and checks the automated feeder.
It’s not an all-inclusive chicken resort, but it allows her to pamper and coddle her very own rescued critter. It makes her smile, and that means more to me than anything else in the world.
She’s lived here for six months. She works for the ranch and spent the holidays with my family—Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s. She’s become one of us, wedging right into the fold without even trying. They adore her.
I adore her. Cherish her. Worship the ground she walks on. I fucking love her with everything inside me, and I’m sick of holding back the words, the promise I want to make to her, and the secrets I ache to tell her.
I trust her to keep my skeletons buried. My family trusts her. Whatever she’s hiding from me, whatever drove her here six months ago, no longer matters.
I’ve waited long enough.
She says her goodbyes to Chicken and follows me to the door. When I step outside and head toward the house, I don’t hear the crunch of her boots behind me. I stop and look back.
Standing in the doorway of the stable, she burrows down into her puffer coat, arms wrapped around her, and legs squeezed together. Her breaths huff out like white smoke from beneath the hat, and her entire body trembles.
It’s frigidly cold today, but she’s been working in wintry temperatures for over a month. I toss her
an impatient scowl.
“What?” She glares at the snow. “Chicken doesn’t like it, either.”
“This is her first winter, so she has an excuse. But you…”
“Yes. I’m cold. I know it’s not nearly as cold here as it is in Chicago, but I’m still cold. Don’t judge me.”
“I’m definitely judging.” I pivot back toward the house and start walking.
Two strides later, a snowball slams into the back of my neck and crumbles beneath the collar of my jacket.
I turn, and she races past me, hurling more snowballs from a pre-made pile in her arms.
The sneaky, little—
A ball of white flies past my face, so close it grazes my cheek.
She squeals with laughter and speeds off toward the parking lot, grabbing a stash of already-formed snowballs along her path.
I don’t know when she set this up, but my insides alight with adrenaline at the prospect of playing with her.
Dropping to my knees, I pack and mold as pelting snow rains down on my head. I haven’t done this since I was kid, and dammit, I can’t stop the snowballs from falling apart. “How do you know how to do this so well?”
“I grew up in Chicago, baby.” She stands ten feet away, ammo clutched in each hand, and winks. “I know how to play in the snow.”
I finally figure out how to pack small lumpy balls and spend the next twenty minutes chasing her around the cars in the lot, ducking and weaving and volleying ice grenades back and forth.
I haven’t laughed this hard in years. She’s so damn invigorating and addictive, a flurry of energy and rosy cheeks, youthfulness and angelic beauty. Her love for life is magnetic, her spirit inspiring. I want to spend the rest of my days chasing her fire and basking in her heat.
When the pelting hail of snow falls quiet, I scan the lot, searching for her mischievous grin. She either used up her arsenal or she’s planning an attack.
“Maybe?” My boots crunch the snow as I circle the cars, heart pounding in anticipation.
Something stirs behind me. I pivot, and her chest collides with mine. Her arms encircle my back, and I hoist her up. She wraps her legs around my hips, and we sink into a kiss that scatters birds and melts snow.
Her lips are cold, her mouth wet and warm as I plunge my tongue in languorous strokes. There’s no biting. No bruising or urgency. No games or wars. It’s just us, feeling, tasting, and savoring the realism in our togetherness.
“I love you.” I snap my eyes closed, startled by the sound of the words I’ve said to her so many times in my head.
She lowers her feet to the ground and rests a gloved hand on my cheek, prompting me to look at her.
“I love you, too.” Her gaze slips over my face and returns to my eyes. “So much it hurts.”
Needle pricks stampede across my skin, and my heart pummels my ribcage. Chills and heat and the vibration of her declaration—it’s the best feeling.
It’s the right time.
The rock in my pocket burns to be removed. I’ve been carrying it around for so long, waiting, dreading, hoping.
I know that what I do next will upset the balance we’ve so carefully and diligently maintained. But I’ve only been delaying the inevitable. We share the same destiny, and I want the world to know it.
My mouth dries as I slide off my gloves and lower to one knee.
“Jarret?” Confusion creaks her voice.
My hand shakes as I shove it into my pocket and slip out the ring. I had it custom made months ago. A two-caret diamond set in a gold band with a delicate leaf pattern along the sides. It reminds me of an enchanted meadow, straight out of Alice in Wonderland.
I’ll be making payments on it for the rest of my life, but I don’t care. I just want her happy.
I lift my eyes to hers and hold up the ring. “Marry me.”
She stares at the diamond, and her mouth drops open. She closes it, opens it, and her eyes flood with horrified tears.
“Jarret…” She staggers back, shaking her head. “I can’t.”
My heart falls out of my chest and bleeds in the snow. My lungs slam together, and I bite down so hard on my tongue I taste iron.
But I knew this wouldn’t be easy. Maybe Quinn doesn’t do anything without a fight. So I push away the rejection and pull my insides back together. My muscles tense. My blood heats, and determination surges beneath my skin.
“You can.” I rise to my feet and clench the ring in my fist.
“You don’t understand.” Her chin quivers, and tears streak down her pale cheeks.
“You love me. I love you.” My voice rises to a guttural shout. “There’s nothing else to understand!”
“Oh, God.” Her shoulders hunch, and her gloved hands fly to her mouth as she turns away, wobbling in the opposite direction of the house.
“What are you doing?” I trail her through the lot with a painful knot in my stomach. “Talk to me.”
“I will.” She picks up her pace and lurches toward her car. “I have to…” A sob rips from her chest. “I need to show you.”
She stops at the driver’s side door, clutches the handle, and pauses. Agony and conflict shake through her tiny frame, and it’s all I can do to keep from roaring. I can’t stand to see her upset.
“Whatever it is…” I return the ring to my pocket and pull her tight against my chest. “We’ll get through it. I’m not letting go. Understand?”
She stares up at me, her eyes vivid, radiant, watery blue against the backdrop of snow. She blinks, and a lone tear clings to the lower fringe of her lashes.
“I never wanted to see your lashes wet.” I catch the droplet with my finger and squeeze it in the ball of my hand. “I’m so sorry I made you cry.”
“It’s not you.” Her eyes close, and her expression crumples.
“You’re stunning, even when you’re crying.” Cupping the back of her head, I guide her face to my lips and kiss each eyelid. Damp lashes flutter against my skin, and I kiss those, too. “What can I do?”
“You’re doing everything right.” She turns back to the car door and opens it. “We should’ve had this conversation months ago.”
She bends down toward the floorboard and reappears with a large envelope clutched to her chest.
That’s where she kept her secrets? All this time, I could’ve looked in her car, but I never considered it. I told her I would wait until she was ready to give me the truth, and she left the envelope in the car, trusting me not to take it.
“I love you, Maybelline Quinn.” I hold out a hand to her.
With a jerky nod, she grips my fingers. Then she follows me into the house, down the hall, and into our bedroom.
We remove our outerwear in silence, watching each other without looking away. She sits on the bed to tug off the boots. The boots from my childhood. She could’ve replaced them with the money she’s earning. Instead, she wears them every day and even now, she sets them on the floor with affectionate care.
Lifting the envelope from the pile of coats and hats, she finds my eyes across the room. “I would’ve said yes.”
“But…” My throat closes, and a swarm of bees invade my stomach.
She clutches her neck, her expression washed in misery. “I’m already married.”
A knife twists inside one simple word.
Married.
How is that possible? Maybe is mine. She’s been mine. My fists clench as denial clamps down on my lungs.
Married.
I repeat it in my head, weighing the declaration against her actions over the past six months.
She was resistant from day one, physically and emotionally averse to having a relationship with me. But there are so many explanations for that—her fear of sexual intimacy, her suspicions about my past, and her connection to the list of dead men.
My chest squeezes around my heart as my thoughts take me farther and farther down a horrifying path.
In the back of my mind, I suspected she had some kind of family tie
to my dad’s business partners. Her mother died of cancer. Her father, however, she never mentions.
But a husband?
Had I considered that possibility? Perhaps deep down I always knew and refused to let myself acknowledge it.
“Did he send you here?” I ask with more calm than I feel. “Is he using you in some kind of ploy against me?”
“What?” She shakes her head rapidly. “No!”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know anymore.” She hovers near the closed door of the bedroom, watching me warily.
“What does that mean?” I shake uncontrollably as a flood of questions rise in my throat.
Do I know him? Is she looking for him? Does she love him?
Why didn’t she tell me?
His identity is chief of my concerns. Levi Tibbs was the youngest of my victims and the first person she mentioned when I met her in the bar. But I can’t fathom her marrying a rapist and hired hit man.
Except she fell in love with me.
A serial murderer.
She loves me.
That’s the only reason I haven’t completely lost my shit.
She fell in love with me while she was still married. He might be looking for her. She might be looking for him. But she’s with me.
If she’s married to a dead man, she’s a widow. If he’s still alive, she can divorce him. We’ll work through this. I refuse to consider any other option.
“I met him on a dating site two years ago.” She lowers the envelope, staring at it through a glaze of tears. “It was a whirlwind romance. He swept into my life, swept me off my feet, and swept out of it within a year.”
“Is he one of the names on your list?”
“I…I need to tell you some things first. Things that will anger you, and I don’t want you to hurt him.” She shudders with a stifled cry, knocking more tears loose. “I loved him.”
The torment in her voice is a thousand knives stabbing my chest.
“I thought he loved me.” She shuffles to the bed and perches on the edge. “Until he left for work one morning and never returned.”
So he’s missing.
She’s had three lovers. Three relationships. One in high school, one in college, and one after. Not once did she fucking imply she was married.