Page 7

Chapter Seven

brYNN

“W ell, after nearly a week of seeing you everywhere, I had to come up with a nickname for you. I can’t say it was especially creative, but it did the trick,” I explain to Beau as we sit on the floor in front of his fireplace, leaning against thick piles of cushions from the couch.

My towel-dried hair is still damp from the shower. The delicious smell of cypress and sandalwood shampoo, conditioner, and body wash from the guest bedroom envelope me. I wear one of his oversized khaki shirts with “USMC” and the Marines logo printed in black ink in the front right corner, and his eyes devour me like I’m a fully frosted cake begging for the first bite.

He wears the matching government-issue jogging pants that make everything about his thick, muscular lower half criminally tempting. His shower-moist hair, beard, and chest fur beckon me to touch him with the same delicious manly, foresty smell. It takes every ounce of self-control not to reach out and palm his chiseled pectorals.

The flames flicker, transfixing me as I take another sip of the wine he’s offered me, feeling strangely at home and at peace in this stranger’s cabin. My eyes flicker around the room, taking in the vaulted ceilings and impressive floor-to-ceiling windows that I can only guess afford jaw-dropping views of nature during the daytime.

The furnishings are minimal and masculine with an emphasis on Native American patterns, cozy oversized pillows in matching accent colors, and fake fur blankets lined with forest green satin that beg me to cuddle beneath them. Only I’m far too hot from the roaring blaze and the sight of my mountain man stalker to cover up.

“I’m still waiting for it,” he says gruffly, clenching his jaw like I’m going to say something he doesn’t like.

My cheeks burn. “My mountain man stalker.”

The corners of his lips turn up, and his somber face softens almost imperceptibly. “You want to know my favorite part of that nickname?”

I stare down at my hands. “The man part?”

He shakes his head.

“The mountain part?”

“Nope.”

“The stalker part?”

“The possessive pronoun…”

My voice squeaks. “Why?”

“You promise you won’t freak out if I admit something to you?” Beau asks, his face stony.

“I promise,” I say without hesitation, far too curious to turn back now.

“Because it implies an overlapping of our fates. Something I want, though it’s been a highly inconvenient realization.”

“Highly inconvenient? Why?”

He stiffens, looking like the cat who swallowed the canary. “Because I’m a loner, Brynn. The kind of guy who doesn’t want to rely on anyone else for anything.”

“Is it really about having to rely on somebody else?” I ask, puzzled.

He pauses for a long moment, looking up to the right side of the ceiling before answering, “It’s also about being vulnerable. Putting my heart out there to be hurt by somebody.” He looks down, shaking his head. “This truth-telling stuff is intense.”

“It is, isn’t it?” I respond breathily. “It’s amazing how quickly you can get to know somebody when you cut through all the bullshit, though.”

“Or stalk them for a week,” he murmurs, his eyes simmering.

“Are you flirting with me, Beau?” I ask, speaking to the seductive arch of his eyebrow and smooth delivery.

“Could be…”

“Honesty,” I remind.

He works hard to suppress the grin that captures his face, failing. “Yes, in that case. I am flirting with you. Is that okay?”

“Yes. Very much so.”

“Even though I’m thirty-eight to your twenty-five?”

“I like older men.”

“Much older men,” he corrects. “Why?”

“Okay,” I admit, looking down. “You caught me. It’s not so much older men that I like. It’s you that I like.”

“I prefer that answer,” he observes huskily, inching closer to me. I can feel the electricity sizzling between us as he reaches his hand towards my hair. Wrapping one of my ruby-colored locks around his fingers, he strokes it with his thumb. “Your hair’s as silky as I imagined it would be. And you smell like me now instead of your usual strawberry shortcake perfume—all sugar, vanilla, and berries.”

My eyes drop to his hand, touching my hair like it’s a priceless treasure. I don’t understand why I haven’t burst into flames yet, the air suddenly on fire around us.

“I know so much about you. But what do you need to know about me, Butterfly?”

It takes me an awkward moment to process his words, my mind fuzzy with want. “What’s your favorite candy?”

“I don’t eat candy,” he mutters grumpily, leaning back and dropping my hair.

I frown. “Really? Well, what if you did?”

“I’m more of a dark chocolate kind of guy than those fruity sweets you like. Sorry to disappoint.”

“Oh, I like chocolate, too.” Preferably drizzled down your chest for me to lick clean. I shake my head almost imperceptibly to clear my thoughts. This man is destroying my willpower one naughty fantasy at a time. I wonder if he knows what he’s doing.

His eyes bore into me, dark and dissatisfied. What is he thinking? Clearing his throat, he says in rich tones, “Especially peanut butter and chocolate together. And I make a mean homemade hot cocoa. I’ll have to do it for you tomorrow.”

Tomorrow? My chest heaves at the thought of waking up under the same roof as this feral man.

Licking my lips sensually and watching his eyes smolder as they drop to my mouth again, I question, “When I asked around, people said you were born and raised in Murrieta. Do you like living here? Or is it out of habit?”

“I love living here. It doesn’t get any more rugged and pristine. I could take you on hikes and show you places that would make your soul sing. Places that would have you doing all sorts of fancy poses on your mat.” His delivery is serious, but I swear his eyes twinkle for one brilliant, though fleeting, moment.

“Why haven’t you ever been married?”

He rubs his hand over his face. “Maybe you should go to journalism school. You sure know how to ask the unanswerable question.”

“Why unanswerable?”

He chuckles, a sound so foreign, I’m a little taken aback. But I love it, yearning to make him laugh some more. “For me, it’s a mixture of never finding the right woman and never being the right man. How about for you?”

“More or less the same. Along with a healthy dose of not wanting to settle down.”

“I understand what you mean.”

“Does that mean you don’t want to settle down? Ever?”

He shifts, leaning back against the pillows a little more. “It would take something exceptional to make me want to settle down.”

“Something exceptional … so basically, non-existent, then.”

“I said exceptional, not impossible,” he corrects. “It would take knowing to the depths of my soul that I could make the other person truly, one hundred percent happy until my dying day.”

“You don’t take this stuff lightly,” I murmur.

“No, I don’t. Maybe that’s also part of the reason I’m still single. But what about you? What would make you ditch the 4Runner home and set up camp in one spot?”

“The right mountain man.”

“I’m okay with that answer,” he replies, tenderness and lust swirling beneath the surface of his guarded eyes.

“Tell me about your childhood. Why you don’t trust people.”

He frowns, deepening the creases in his forehead.

“Was that a bad question?” I ask quickly, kicking myself.

“No.” His voice is far off and his face hard. Despite his answer, I don’t believe him. Is this where the honesty ends?

As if reading my mind, he answers, “Honesty means there are no bad questions, just difficult ones.”

With an inhale more like a gulp, he murmurs gruffly, “I was an only child. Thank God. Because my father was a drunk and drug addict, and my mother was the perfect enabler. Always there to supply his habits, bail him out, and come up with excuses for our bruises, abrasions, and broken bones. By ours, I mean Mom’s and mine.”

His voice strains as he stares absentmindedly at one of the fake fur blankets next to him, fingering it. His frown deepens in thought. The fire crackles, luminescent and hypnotic, to the left of me.

“I always knew he’d kill my mom. Thought he’d end up in prison for life. Hoped he wouldn’t kill me, too, because I was prepared to defend her to my dying breath. Whether I was six or sixteen. But that’s not how it went down. They were both in a bad car accident. DUI. Mom died on impact, but Dad lingered for months, comatose. A drain to society and the world. The first chance I had, I pulled the plug. And the funny part was, nobody cared. Nobody was there to advocate for him, and I’ve never regretted what I did. Never will. Does that change your opinion of me?”

“Yes,” I admit, swallowing hard.

Beau’s eyes flicker up to the clock on the mantle. “As fun as this conversation’s been, we could both use some sleep. Everything you need should be in the guest bathroom. If not, let me know. Goodnight, Brynn.”

“Wait, you didn’t let me explain.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t need to explain.”

“Yes, I do,” I say, leaning forward to cup his cheek. It’s the first time I’ve initiated touching this man, and it makes my body tremble with yearning. “Your explanation of your childhood helped me understand why you hate betrayal so much. And why you have abandonment issues. That’s how it changed my opinion of you.”

Beau covers my hand with his own. His palm is rough and work-hardened like I imagined. “Brynn, I’m a twisted man, twisted in ways a bad childhood alone can’t account for. Do you know what a Scout Sniper does for a living? Do you have any idea how many men I’ve killed?”

I sit back, letting my hand trail from his face back into my lap. “I have no idea. But I know you did it to serve your country. And I would also venture to prove to the world and yourself that you’re nothing like your dad.”

“That’s right,” Beau replies softly. “Because I’m a far more effective and better killer than he ever could be. Even though the only man I ever really wanted in the sight of my rifle was him. Talk about fucked up, right?”

“Not fucked up. Understandable.”

“Understandable?” He growls. “Patricide?”

“Self-defense under the circumstances.”

His eyes level on mine with a newfound intensity, one so powerful it steals the breath from my lungs. “You need to understand something about me. When I say I’d kill any man who lays a hand on you … who even thinks about hurting you, I mean it with full conviction. But the man I’m most afraid of hurting you is me.”

“Why?” My voice cracks, and my chin trembles.

“Because you’re too good for a guy like me. Too normal. Too functional. Too generous with your spirit and heart. Too honest.”

“But aren’t you being honest?” I question.

“Doing the best I can. But it’s tough when you’ve spent large parts of your life believing lies about yourself and your role in the world.”

“Like what?”

Suddenly, he jumps to his feet, his face guarded. “I’ll spare you the details. We could both use some shut-eye. Have a good night, Butterfly.” Turning on his heels, he doesn’t look back as he pads barefoot down the hallway leading towards the bedrooms.