Becca

Sunday Morning

By the time I shower and dress in the en suite the next morning, I’ve realized my mistake in showing up at Dax’s cabin.

The reason one-night stands work is because they last one night. One exquisite, perfect, no-regrets night before you each return to your respective lives. I should’ve thought about the consequences of sleeping with a guy who’s on his first day of his vacation. Hard to go back to your respective anythings when you live on the same mountain.

There was no sexy sex last night like the first night. There wasn’t so much as a kiss. I came back out of the bedroom and sipped half a beer until it grew warm, then excused myself to bed. I should have suspected that outcome. After all, I’ve never heard of a two-night stand.

I have no excuse for my showing up here rather than bunking in a variety of other places at Grand Lark. Other than the real reason: I wanted to see him. I wanted to see his handsome face and hear the low rumble of his voice. When he tossed that blanket around me last night and zeroed those gorgeous eyes in on me, I nearly started purring.

I should’ve prefaced that by saying I’m not the clingy type. I don’t mind temporary, or moving forward. Heck, I love it. I’ve made several moves—changed states, made new friends, switched roommates. Not only do I not mind change: I thrive on it.

However. There’s no denying I’ve made things awkward by being here. I could’ve muscled Dominic out of the restaurant’s spare bed—he’d have let me. Then I’d be awake and in my office working away. Instead I have to walk out into the common area of cabin 13 before canoeing up the driveway to my car.

I was hoping Dax liked to sleep until noon so I could escape without seeing him. Cowardly, I know, but that was my hope. Until I heard him puttering around in the kitchen.

Well. Here goes nothing.

I turn the doorknob and whip open the door, stepping into the living room. Dax stands in the open kitchen, hip leaning against the countertop, fingers wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee.

“Good morning!” I chirp, convinced that if I act like nothing’s wrong, nothing will be.

He dips his chin in a nod before sipping from his mug.

“Wow. It’s coming down out there.” Great. Now I’m talking about the weather.

I swallow nervously as I pace to the kitchen. Dax’s eyes go to my bag, which I slip off my shoulder and rest on one of the barstools.

Because of course I’m leaving. Of course I’m vacating the premises. Before things get really weird. We didn’t make promises, and I don’t want Dax to feel as if he has to make any.

“Look,” I start.

“Tree’s down.”

“Pardon?”

“In the road at the top of the driveway. You can’t drive back to the office until we remove the tree.”

Not that I don’t believe him, but I walk to the front door and look out the window. I can see my car. A huge downed tree, fat limbs pointing to the sky, blocks the road.

“Oh my gosh.” Six inches to the left and my Toyota would’ve been a crunchy metal pancake.

In the driveway, close to the house, Dax’s Jeep sits in gathering water.

“Guessing you can’t drive me to work either?”

He shakes his head, just once. “Not until this lets up.”

With a sigh, I face him. He’s leaning there on the counter looking too good for words. Strong and sexy. Silvery stare focused on me, T-shirt hugging his muscular arms . . .

“How do you feel about a two-night stand?” I ask with a grin.

A low laugh escapes his throat. I grin wider. I thought I was kidding, but now that he’s smiling at me, I’m sure that I’m not.

“Seconds,” he says, pushing off the counter to approach me, “are not out of the question.”

“No?” I ask on an exhale.

“Not for me. You?”

I shrug one shoulder and drop it.

“You know how I feel about uncertainty, Princess.” He hoists an eyebrow.

Oh, I know. He likes to hear the word “yes.” Clear, concise “yeses” back to back when he’s in the process of making me lose my mind.

Is it suddenly hot in here?

“Why do you call me ‘Princess’?” I ask, rather than talk about any of this “yes” business.

“Do you drink coffee?”

I blink at his question in response to my question. Sly, this one. “Who doesn’t?”

“My ex-girlfriend.” He turns away to pour me a cup and I stare at his broad back and wonder who she was. What she was like. How long they dated.

Something else I don’t make a habit of is feeling jealousy’s sting. I don’t worry about the past . . . or the future. I’m frowning by the time he faces me, steaming cup in hand.

“I have milk but no cream.”

“Black is fine.”

“Not going for fine.” He levels a lingering gaze at me that reminds me of every delicious thing we did Friday night. Then he walks to the fridge and returns, tipping the half-full gallon of milk until a healthy splash lands in my coffee. It’s the perfect tan hue. Just the way I take it.

“Sugar?”

“Yes, dear?” I quip, and the air electrifies between us. I clear my throat and quietly amend, “No, thanks. This is perfect.”

“That’s”—he leans forward and I smell the spicy, earthy fragrance of his aftershave or soap or cologne—“what I was going for.”

Dax

I can tell Becca’s uncomfortable. Which is counter to the way she was on our first night together. She wasn’t shy or uncomfortable, but now . . . I watch her as she stands rigidly at the sliding glass door and looks out at the trees in the back.

Definitely uncomfortable.

I’m not.

My comfort level has been tested and retested over the last year. Once you’re holding the worst hand life can deal you, you have a certain resolute spirit about the rest.

I consider what I know about the blonde in my cabin. She’s lived in a lot of places; her brother and she have a challenging relationship. She showed up at my door with enough supplies to last the week but then tried to escape come morning.

She’s a runner.

I recognize the trait because I used to be one. When I was in my early twenties and I didn’t know how to handle women or sex or relationships. That shit’s behind me and has been for a decade. My thirties, even though I’m only in my third year, have brought perspective.

It’s been a hell of a trio of years.

“How old are you, Princess?” I wash my mug and turn it upside down on a dry dish towel. I turn to face Becca. Her eyebrows climb until they disappear into her hair.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you that a lady never reveals her age?”

“I didn’t mean any disrespect. Just figured I’m older than you.”

“Not by much.” She assesses me as if she’s never considered how old I am, purses her lips, then says, “You’re, what? Twenty-eight?”

I offer a wry smile.

“Thirty?”

I hold up my thumb and gesture that she needs to go higher.

“Thirty-tw . . .” she hesitates and I hoist my thumb higher. “Thirty-three?”

“You said ‘thirty-three’ like it’s geriatric.”

“You look younger. That’s all. Six years isn’t that big of a gap.” She rolls her pretty eyes.

Six years makes her twenty-seven. That’s about what I’d have guessed.

“Your brother’s older,” I say.

“Doesn’t his bossiness presume that?”

“Absolutely.”

She’s been walking toward me as she talks. Her swagger’s back. That easy, smooth gait hinting that she’s good on her feet. She’s in a tight pair of dark blue jeans with a few rips at the thighs. They elongate her already long legs.

“And what of your siblings, Dax?”

I shake my head.

“Parents?”

“They live in Ohio too.” My brow crinkles as I realize what I said. “My mom lives in Ohio,” I correct. “Dad passed recently.”

Her entire face changes. Her pale eyebrows angle to show her concern, her mouth softens, and her eyes zero in on mine. “I’m so sorry.”

She closes the gap between us and rests her palm on my chest, and it’s not a rehearsed move. Becca means it. She’s looking up at me with so much care, her small hand warm against my shirt, that my throat thickens with grief.

My biggest concern when my dad became sick was making sure my mom was okay. After he passed, my focus was on guiding her to the next stage of her life. I became so preoccupied with my mom’s okayness, that I haven’t given enough (any?) thought or attention to my own.

I manage a silent nod of thanks to Becca.

“My parents drive me crazy,” she confesses easily, “but I would miss them very much if they were gone.”

I nod again. I miss him a ton.

She stops touching me, and only then do I suck in a breath and narrowly avoid doing something really manly . . . like tear up. I clear my throat to dislodge the lump there.

“Did your brother give you the day off?” I ask, mostly to change the subject.

“Tad texted me frantic that I’m not at the office. He has no reason to worry. Last night I stuffed the office laptop into my overnight bag.”

“So you could’ve worked remotely the entire time.” I narrow my eyelids and reroute my gaze to her bag, still sitting on the barstool. She has the decency to look chagrined. Nose wrinkled and teeth bared, she gives me an exaggerated wince.

“I didn’t mean to run away this morning,” she says. “I just . . . I don’t know what I expected.”

“A weekend filled with sex?” I venture.

She lets out a surprised “Ha!” And we’re back. The vibe in the air isn’t quite the white heat of Friday night, but it isn’t far off.

“Maybe. Yeah. I don’t usually do this.”

“One-night stands? Me neither.”

“Um . . . no. I don’t usually do more than one night.” She squeezes one eye shut like she’s expecting a blow of judgment. She won’t get it. I don’t make a habit of judging anyone. Too time-consuming.

“I changed your mind?”

“Well.” She finishes off her coffee and sets the mug down. I take it to the sink. “Keep in mind I was choosing between holing up with Dominic and coming here, where there’s plenty of space, an indoor gym, and a hot tub. Plus, you have a shower.”

Despite her joking tone, I feel a frown transform my face.

“Dominic?” A bite of jealously lurks in my response.

“I didn’t mean we literally would have holed up together. He was stuck at the office too.”

“He likes you, Princess.”

“Ew!”

“Gorgeous women usually know when they hold the cards. Know how to use it against us.”

She overlooks my compliment and goes with “Ooh, spoken like a man who has been at the whim of a gorgeous woman.”

Shit. Walked into that one. I press my lips together.

“Let’s agree not to talk about your past relationships.” She holds up a hand like a stop sign.

“Or yours?”

“That seems fair.”

She leans against the counter, training her foxy little smile on me.

White-hot.

It’s back.

“We can play this weekend by ear,” she suggests.

“Princess.” I straighten, folding my arms over my chest. “You’re going to be in my bed again and we both know it.”

Her mouth drops open like she’s alarmed, but there’s no denying the spark of interest in her eyes. “Easy, there, mister. We had one good night, but it doesn’t mean you’ll woo me into another.”

“I don’t woo, babe.” I stand over her, lowering my lips to her ear to whisper, “You’ll come to me. And when you do, I’ll give as good as I gave Friday night.”

When I back away, her breasts lift as her breathing speeds up. She doesn’t have a quip for that, which tells me plenty. She wants me again—as much as I want her.

“You mentioned cooking.” I throw her words from last night at her. “Lunch is on you.”

“What about breakfast?”

“Coffee was breakfast.” I wink and leave her in the kitchen, flustered, pink cheeked, and wanting me.

Perfect.