My eyes were closed but I knew Beau was moving in. The heat from his full lips intensified as they came closer and closer. My heart pounded louder with every passing second that his lips hovered above mine but didn’t touch.
I fought to keep my eyes closed, but eventually, I gave into the temptation and opened them. Beau’s gaze was waiting to lock with mine. His eyes were a hurricane of gray and blue clouds, darkening with every one of his heavy pants. The erection against my hip was swelling, hard and thick. I lifted my hips up further, wanting my body touching its entire length.
His tongue darted out and touched his lip, causing a wave of heat to pool between my legs. I desperately wanted to be the one to wet that soft, pink bottom lip. I slowly lifted my head, inching my face closer to his, but then he was gone.
Beau’s head jerked back a foot, recoiling from me like a spring. His arm yanked from underneath my neck. The hand that had lifted up my camisole to splay across my ribs was now held high in the air like he’d touched a hot plate. The desire in his eyes had vanished, replaced by disgust. The top lip I had been longing to feel against my own was now curled up on one side.
He didn’t have to explain. I knew exactly why he had retreated.
Beau Holt did not get involved with whores like me.
I pressed my face further into my pillow and groaned. That dream was getting old. Really fucking old.
I’d been having the same one off and on for the last couple of weeks. It was almost guaranteed that I’d have it after writing a sex scene in my novel, and since yesterday I’d written a doozy, it came as no shock that Beau had found my sleep. If only I had the ability to change that ending and feel his lips move against mine. Even if it were all in my head, I’d take it. I was beyond sexually frustrated—another side effect of writing sex scenes.
Beau’s presence always left me charged, so the fact that he’d been scarce lately should have cooled me off. But here I was, desperate for some relief.
It had been over a month since Beau had spent the night at the outpost. Not since the day he had forced me into the shower and out of my funk. The same night we had crossed some invisible emotional boundary, causing him to pull back and put some distance between us.
After I had crawled into his arms that last night, we’d talked in hushed voices, laughing and teasing one another. Minus the actual sex, it had been the most perfect postcoital cuddle of my entire life. It had been intimate and raw. Real and honest. The threads connecting our hearts had felt stronger, like industrial chains rather than loosely woven fibers.
The next morning, I had woken up alone, something I hadn’t done since I’d started sleeping with Beau on the floor. He had avoided my eyes and left not long after breakfast.
Since then, he had only come up for brief, once-a-week day trips. He’d leave Prescott in the morning, arriving at the outpost before lunch. We’d share a quiet but polite meal before unpacking whatever supplies he’d brought, then he’d say good-bye, leaving to make the three-hour journey back to town so he could get home before dinner.
The distance was a good thing—my new mantra.
Yes, it had dinged my pride to feel that rejection from Beau but it really had been good for me.
During the first month at the outpost, I had let myself get swept up in all that Beau goodness. His strength. His gentle nature. His calming essence. I had convinced myself that I’d be fine at the outpost as long as he was by my side.
But he’d left and I had found a new determination to make this work on my own. I’d prove to myself that I could stay in this place alone. That I could be content here. I’d take back some of the independence I had lost when I’d been forced to hide in the woods.
Those were my goals.
My plan for achieving them was simple.
Write a book.
Now, a month later, it was almost done.
Forcing my face out of the pillow, I sat on the edge of my cot, swinging the sleep from my legs as I stretched my arms to the ceiling. Boone crawled out from beneath me and rested his chin on my thigh for a good-morning scratch.
“Last chapter today, buddy,” I said. “Let’s get after it.”
Quickly showering and blow-drying my hair, I threw on my freshly hand-washed jeans and a simple white T-shirt. The June weather was cool in the morning, but by mid-afternoon, the outpost would be quite warm and I would drag my chair outside to write in the shade of the trees.
I made myself coffee, savoring its bitter warmth, and settled into the log chair.
My writing chair.
I was already rehearsing my speech to beg Beau to let me take it home to Seattle.
Opening my laptop, I scrolled to the bottom of my novel and started hammering away at the keyboard. My heroine’s ending was perfectly scripted in my mind. Today, she and her hero were finally getting their happily ever after.
Four hours later, I stared at my screen, unblinking.
I’d done it. I’d written a novel.
It was undeniably surreal. Remarkable, really. Pride swelled in my chest as tears of joy flooded my eyes.
I loved my story.
The manuscript needed editing and a thorough proofread, but the story itself was a solid first draft. My characters weren’t perfect, they were real. Fitting one another into their lives took work. They struggled on their journey, dealing with personal battles not easy to fight alone, but they learned how to trust in each other.
I loved my story.
I had loved writing my story.
Giving myself to it completely, I had let this process consume me in a freeing way. There were no rules to my writing. I could dictate everything and anything I wanted for my characters.
There wasn’t a fact-checker questioning everything I had done. My boss wasn’t pressuring me to beat a deadline. The newspaper executives weren’t requiring me to spin the story a certain way. It had been, by far, the most enlightening and rewarding writing experience I’d had since college.
Even if I only sold ten copies, I didn’t care. Writing this novel had been better therapy than paying a trained professional ever could have been.
The main character was the flawed version of myself, struggling to overcome poor decisions. Her biggest regret was mine, having traded her morals to advance her career. Yet the hero loved her anyway. He cherished her imperfections.
Fiction was remarkable. I could give her the man I’d never find, a man that didn’t exist in the real world. Because no decent, honorable, kind man would want anything to do with me.
Anton had called me a whore the night he’d nearly beaten me to death.
It was true.
I’d slept my way to a story.
Had I screwed him to get evidence to stop his criminal empire? Yes.
Had I had sex with him because I’d known it would advance my career? Unfortunately, the answer to that question was also yes.
I’d slept with Anton—a man I loathed—for months because I’d wanted to become the next Diane Sawyer or Barbara Walters.
I doubted I’d ever forgive myself, but writing my book had helped.
It had given me a chance to write the ending I wanted.
My heroine had moved past her former transgressions. She had found a new life where she could feel good about herself.
Maybe someday I’d find a piece of her happy ending for myself.
Regardless, the writing had given me an outlet. Not only had writing been therapeutic, it had given me a purpose. I was working toward something, not just sitting idle. I was finding the driven, ambitious woman that had been missing since I’d arrived at the outpost.
I was finding me again.
A tear rolled down my cheek and dropped on my shirt. I didn’t try to blink it away, I just let it, and the ones that followed, fall.
They weren’t sad.
They were full of hope.
I smiled, bringing a hand over my mouth to laugh.
I wrote a book.
Closing the lid on my laptop, I set it aside and stood. The room was too small for how big I felt so I rushed outside. By the time I hit the tree line into the meadow, I was running with Boone nipping playfully at my heels.
I bounced and twirled into the open sunlight, the scent of pine needles and green grass filling my nose, the smell intoxicating and wonderful. It was light and clean, sweet and full of promise.
“Woo-hoo!” I yelled into the open air, tipping my head back to the sky as I twirled with my arms out at my sides. Boone barked and jumped at my feet. “I wrote a book!” I laughed and shouted again.
Spinning and dancing, I let my smile shine. I was going full-on Sound of Music, “The hills are alive.” Julie Andrews had nothing on the pure joy I felt for the first time in . . . far too long.
And then it hit me.
An idea for novel number two.
I smiled, yelled for Boone and dashed back to the outpost.
The words on my first book were barely dry, metaphorically speaking, but I didn’t care.
Hours later, I had crafted chapter one of my second novel and it felt amazing.
I wasn’t a reporter anymore. I was an author.
And I wasn’t ever looking back.
I stowed my laptop and rushed to the door when the noise of an approaching vehicle sounded outside.
Just like I always did, I cracked the door and peered through the small opening to make sure it was Beau. It hadn’t been a week yet since his last visit so my heart was pounding faster than normal. When his truck, Green Colossus, came into view, I relaxed and let out the breath I’d been holding.
I had no idea what I’d do if someone other than Beau came to the outpost. Probably freak the fuck out, then hide in the bathroom.
Beau parked and got out of his truck, rounding the hood my way. I sucked in a couple short breaths as my heart skipped a beat. The sight of him affected me every damn time just like the first.
“Hey, Goliath.”
“Hey.” He didn’t smile. He didn’t call me Shortcake. He just came right into my space and steered me by the elbow back inside.
Something wasn’t right.
“What’s wrong?” My hands started trembling as panic set in. Was it my family? Or Felicity? Had the Federovs gotten to someone I loved?
He let my elbow go and looked me up and down. When he’d determined I was fine, he started rubbing his bearded jaw.
“Beau?” My voice cracked. Nothing good was going to come from his mouth.
“Ivan Federov showed in Prescott today.”
My heart dropped to my stomach and the blood drained from my face. Beau reached out and caught my hand, steadying me.
Why was Anton’s brother in Prescott? Shouldn’t he be confined to the city? And if Ivan had come to Montana, did that mean Anton was in Florida?
“Come here,” Beau said, leading me to the log chair to sit. He crouched down in front of me and took my hand. “Everyone is fine. Take a breath.”
I nodded and sucked in some air. My hands were still shaking but the oxygen stopped my head from spinning.
“Better?” he asked.
“Yeah. What happened?”
“Ivan showed at the motel this morning. He asked Maisy for a room and chatted with her a bit. He gave her a fake ID and some bullshit story about being a private investigator hired by your family to track you down. Then he showed her your picture and asked if you had come by.”
Damn my story. Not only had I endangered my friends and family but I had pulled Beau’s family into this mix too. His sister, with an adorable little boy, was conversing with criminals.
“You’re sure it was Ivan and not Anton? They look a lot alike.” Ivan was more relaxed than his brother and, as far as I knew, less violent. I didn’t want Anton anywhere near Prescott.
“I’m sure. We’ve all been keeping an eye on the papers and their pictures. It was Ivan.”
I let out a relieved sigh. “Okay. Then what?”
“Obviously, Maisy lied and said she’d never seen you before,” Beau continued. “Ivan bought it, and after he went to his room, Maisy called me.”
“You’re sure that Ivan believed her?”
He nodded. “I’m sure. I was in the office when he came back in for an extra towel. The fucker was flirting with my sister and she played right along. He didn’t suspect a thing.”
“Good. What about Felicity?”
“She’s fine. When Maisy called, I was with Silas and Jess eating breakfast at the café. I went to the motel and both of them went straight to Felicity’s office.”
“Did Ivan talk to her?”
“Yeah,” he said. “He went down there after leaving the motel. Jess told me Felicity put on quite the show. Cried and everything as she begged Ivan to do everything he could to find you. How upset she’s been since you went missing. She even thanked him for helping with the search.”
Beau grinned and I couldn’t help but do the same. The mental image of Felicity Cleary putting on an Oscar-winning performance to a fake private investigator was too much. I was almost sorry I missed it.
“Is he still in Prescott?” I asked.
“Yeah. Jess is keeping tabs on him. Ivan’s been going all over Prescott flashing your picture around. Silas is glued to Felicity’s side. Dad and Michael are camping out with Maisy until he leaves the motel. I came here, just in case.”
I was so glad that Beau had forced me to come to the outpost that first night and that I hadn’t stayed in town and risked being seen. Ivan wouldn’t learn a thing from this trip to Montana.
“How was Ivan allowed to leave Seattle?” The FBI should have been watching him. The articles I had read last month said he’d been arrested with his father and Anton. If they were out on bail, the judge would have ordered them to stay in the city.
“My guess is no one knows he’s here,” Beau said. “When I was at the motel, the vehicle he came in had Washington plates. He probably snuck out of town and drove over last night.”
“He’s taking a big risk if he’s breaking bond. Why wouldn’t they have just sent one of their goons? Why Ivan?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. If I had to guess? I’d say the Federovs are scrambling. Maybe they don’t have anyone they can trust right now. Maybe their ‘goons’ are being watched too. Plus, Ivan is convincing. He’s got charisma. Maybe they thought he’d have an easier time getting information from people around here.”
A cold shiver crept up my back. “I hate that he’s in Prescott.”
These two months, I had fooled myself into thinking that running away had been the right decision. So much time had passed, I’d started to think that I was safe and that my loved ones were out of harm’s way. Foolish hope. If any harm came to my friends or family, I would never forgive myself.
“I never should have run. I should have stayed in Seattle.”
“What?”
My eyes met his as my mind raced through worst-case scenarios. “What if something bad happens? If I had just stayed in Seattle, then Ivan wouldn’t be in Prescott. What if Anton is going to my family?”
“If you had stayed in Seattle, you’d probably be dead. Your parents would be planning your funeral, and the Federovs would be walking free. Let’s just be glad you’re here and hope Anton hasn’t found a way to Florida.”
I slumped in the chair. “I hate that I’m stuck here. That I’m in the dark with no information. I feel helpless.”
“Come on.” Beau held out a hand and pulled me up. “Let’s take a drive up the ridge. You can check on your family. Read the news.”
I nodded. “Okay.”
“Just hang tough, Shortcake. This is going to end well. I promise.” Beau’s words held such conviction, I almost believed them.
We quickly made the terrifying trip up the ridge so I could use Beau’s phone to research the case against the Federovs and check in on my family via social media. Unfortunately, the news articles weren’t all that forthcoming, and as of late, the FBI hadn’t made any revealing statements. All any article said was that the case was pending trial.
Thankfully, my family’s posts were much more comforting.
“Well? Do you think your family got your letter?” Beau asked.
I smiled and nodded. “I’m sure of it. Look.” I held the phone out for him to see my brother’s latest post. “He put one asterisk at the bottom.”
The letter I’d sent to my parents earlier this spring had been fairly vague. I’d told them that I was okay, safe in hiding, and that I’d periodically check in on social media to make sure they were okay. I had instructed them to keep posting their pleas but I’d also asked that they include a code of asterisks so I knew they were okay. One asterisk for safe. Two if there had been any sign of the Federovs in Florida. Three if something bad had happened.
“That was a good idea to have them use the code,” Beau said.
“Thanks. It was your good idea to send the letter in the first place.”
“It’s going to work out.” This time his words were easier to believe.
When I was done checking in on my family, I looked up at Beau. “Can I watch the video again?”
He smiled and nodded.
I turned back to the phone, sure this video would put a smile on my face.
On Beau’s last visit to the outpost, he’d brought me this video. I think I must have watched it fifty times that day and nearly cried each time.
Tapping play, I smiled as Main Street Prescott filled the small screen. The sound of an airplane buzzing through the air preceded a white plane zooming over town and streaming a sky banner.
Silas had asked Felicity to marry him on that banner. Beau had been there, and luckily for me since he stood so much taller than the average person, he had been able to capture not only the plane’s proposal but also my friend’s reaction. Felicity had rushed into Silas’s arms to say yes.
Even though I hadn’t been there, I hadn’t missed it. Beau had seen to that.
“I’m sorry you weren’t able to be there,” Beau said after I watched the video twice.
I nodded. “Me too, but I’m glad Silas didn’t wait for me.”
Silas had sent a note along with Beau on one of his visits, telling me his plan to propose and asking if he should wait for me to be there. I’d told him no, not wanting to delay something that would make Felicity blissfully happy. I had already inconvenienced them enough. I didn’t want their lives to be on hold because of me.
“Will you take another letter to Felicity?” I asked even though I knew the answer. Beau had become my own personal courier.
“You bet.”
With a heavy heart, I was going to write Felicity and tell her to plan her wedding without me. I didn’t want her to delay her special day on my account. Not with how uncertain things were. Missing her wedding would be brutal but I couldn’t risk going. If the Federovs were smart, which they were, they’d likely be watching my best friend’s wedding to see if I made an appearance.
With my phone tasks complete, Beau drove us down the opposite side of the ridge. The descent was far less treacherous than the journey up, though it took twice as long. By the time we got back to the outpost, it was early evening and I figured he’d be setting off for Prescott.
“Do you want any dinner before you go?” I asked.
“I’m staying tonight.”
“Oh, okay.” A swell of nervous energy bubbled up in my chest. Beau hadn’t stayed in over a month, and the last time, we’d had that amazing connection. The one that had caused him to pull away. Was tonight going to be miserably awkward? Or would we fall back into that place where we had been?
I hoped for the latter as I opened the truck door.
Before I could hop down, Beau declared, “Before it gets dark, we’re going to do some shooting.”
I froze. “What was that?” I had no desire to be anywhere near a gun. I hoped he meant shooting slingshots.
“Shooting. You know, with a gun.”
“Yeah, that’s not going to happen.” I hated guns. It was one of the reasons why I had pushed so hard to take down the Federovs, and after what had happened to my high-school friend Janessa, I had every right.
“It is.” Beau got out of the truck, completely ignoring me, and shut his truck door.
“Hey!” I jumped out after him and rounded the hood. “You don’t get to dictate what I do.”
He kept ignoring me as he opened the back door and pulled out a small, black handgun from under the driver’s seat followed by a box of ammunition that had been resting on the floor.
“Let’s go,” he called, walking toward the meadow with Boone happily bouncing along at his feet.
“No.” I fisted my hands and marched into the outpost.
Who did he think he was? He didn’t get to summon me. To force me to do something I didn’t want to do. He’d have to drag me into that meadow.
I paced the outpost, waiting for him to come in on my heels. Sure enough, he marched right inside too. His footsteps pounded in the dirt as he came back toward the outpost, and my heart started thundering as I prepared for the face-off.
“I said, let’s go.” He wasn’t yelling, but he wasn’t happy. “I want you to have plenty of time to practice before it gets dark.”
“I’m not going to learn how to use a gun.” So. There.
“Why?” His patience was fading.
“ ‘Why?’ Because I don’t want to! I hate guns. And I really hate being ordered around. That doesn’t work for me.”
“Look, I understand you’re scared,” he said more calmly. “Most people are until they know how to use a gun correctly but it will be perfectly safe.”
“That’s not my reason.” Though guns did scare the crap out of me. “I just don’t want to use one. Okay?”
“Why?” he repeated, cocking his head to the side, sounding less irritated and more curious.
“I don’t want to get into my reasons so I’d appreciate it if you’d just respect my decision. No guns.”
“Fine.” His face got a cocky smirk. “So how exactly do you plan on defending yourself if you get an unwelcome visitor and I’m not here?”
Damn it. I’d had the same question myself earlier today and hadn’t had time to figure out a better answer than shutting myself in the bathroom. “I’ll, uh, run away.” That would work, right?
“And what if that unwelcome visitor is faster than you?”
“I’m really fast.”
“Sure you are.” His chest started to shake but he held in his laughter.
“I don’t know, okay? I have no idea what I’d do. Hide behind Boone, I guess, and hope he licks the person to death. Or maybe I’ll hide in the biffy. No person in their right mind would go anywhere near that outhouse.”
At my declaration, he gave up trying to keep it in and his laughter echoed off the walls. I glared at him, my fists clenching even tighter as he bent over, belly-laughing to the floor. Finally, he got it under control and stood tall, shaking his head as he smiled.
“No guns,” he said. “I won’t make you use one. And I wouldn’t want you to get anywhere near the biffy again so I’ll bring you a can of bear spray next week.”
“Thank you.” The tension in my arms disappeared and I relaxed my hands.
“You’re welcome,” he said. “Will you at least come outside and watch while I shoot a couple rounds?”
I didn’t especially want to but since he’d given on his end, I could give a little on mine. “Fine.”
For the next hour, Beau patiently showed me how to use a handgun. He taught me to load it, where the safety was and how to squeeze the trigger to fire. Though my hands never touched the black metal, I did feel more comfortable around the weapon by the time we walked back to the outpost for dinner.
And for the rest of the night, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I would one day be grateful for his lesson.