Page 2 of On A Manhunt: Complete Series

MAVERICK

The last thing I expected this week was to be in Montana.

Since the project in Hunter Valley wasn’t going smoothly–meaning it was somehow ridiculously over budget and behind schedule, I had my assistant rearrange my appointments for me to be here.

It had been my idea to convert a local ranch property into a posh inn.

To shift the development of our corporate chain of hotels from large mega-properties like on the Las Vegas Strip, New York’s Fifth Avenue or Belgravia in London to exclusive destinations with only a handful of guests.

These new additions offered top amenities with unusual and custom excursions.

The first one in the San Juan Islands in Washington State had a waitlist after only being open three months.

The latest in Banff opened last month. The project here in Hunter Valley was the third and while I’d been monitoring it closely, I doubted it was going to be ready for prime ski season. Not with the long list of issues.

That wasn’t going to work. I’d had enough excuses and cost overrides from the project manager. Not for me and not for the board of directors who’d backed me.

I flew up here to get it back on schedule and figure out what the hell was going on.

While it was my family’s last name on the side of the corporate headquarters in Denver, it was my ass and personal reputation at stake. I was CEO and it was my–and my brother Silas’s–company. I didn’t like to fail, and it wasn’t going to start now.

The jet landed an hour ago and my first stop in town was for coffee.

I’d driven down the quaint Main Street, found Steaming Hotties, which was one hell of a name for a coffee shop, and parked out front.

I took in the exposed brick walls, high-beamed ceilings inside.

Eclectic tables and chairs were filled with even more eclectic customers ranging from old-timers in overalls to two moms wrangling toddlers with chocolate mustaches and crumbling muffins in their little fists.

The scent of coffee made me start to perk up.

This wasn’t the twenty-third floor of James Corp.

This right here, this caffeine and sugar scented business, was a reason why I chose this valley for the resort.

It was like a break from the real world without any big chain stores or restaurants.

It was near the state’s national parks, but off the beaten path to have too many tourists.

A ski resort was nestled in the mountains at the edge of town, meaning the valley offered both summer and winter activities.

I’d skied here a number of times and knew from those visits this town would be on the list for one of my boutique inns.

This town was calm. Quaint. Easy going.

Friendly, too, based on the big smile and welcome from the barista. “Hey there! What can I get you today?”

“Coffee, black. To go.” I glanced at the bakery case. “Are those cinnamon rolls homemade?”

She smiled. “Sure are.”

My stomach rumbled. “One of those.”

“Good call. Want it warmed up? It’ll be better that way.”

“Sounds good. Thanks.”

I leaned against the counter as she began to fill my order, checking emails on my cell.

“No, something’s off with that calculation. The length and width of the space is what?”

The soft voice had me glancing over my shoulder. A woman was on the phone, papers tucked under her arm. She had glasses on her nose, dark hair pulled into a somewhat sloppy ponytail.

The barista handed me my to-go cup and I passed her some cash as she said, “I’ll let you know when the cinnamon roll is ready.”

“Eight seven by twenty-nine point five,” the woman behind me said. “Right.”

I stuffed the change I was given into a vintage tea pot serving as a tip jar, grabbed my coffee and made my way over to the napkin dispenser at the milk and sugar station. If the cinnamon roll was as gooey and frosting covered as it looked in the case, I was going to need several.

“That’s… twenty-five sixty-six and a half for square footage,” the woman continued.

Wait, did she do that math in her head? I glanced to see if she was reading something on those papers. Nope. They were still stuffed beneath her arm.

She bit her lip, clearly thinking. While her gaze was on the list of coffee drinks on the chalkboard on the brick wall behind the counter, she wasn’t seeing any of it. “Doesn’t the report say twenty-eight something?”

I started listening more intently to her half of the conversation.

I grabbed a stir stick to look busy with my coffee, even though I liked it black, and not like I was eavesdropping.

I had no idea what she was talking about, but I was fascinated.

Whatever the math problem, she wasn’t using a calculator or one in her cell phone.

“Hey Bridge. Usual?” the barista asked.

Bridge. An odd name.

She–Bridge–moved the phone away from her head as she answered. “You got it. Thanks, Eve.”

Bridge moved to a high top beneath the large picture window looking out onto the street, set her papers down with a sigh. “That’s one of the problems,” she continued with whomever was on the call. “The math’s way off. They’re overcharging by over two hundred square feet. Yes, I’m sure.”

She tipped her head up at the tin ceiling and while I could only see her back, I knew she was probably rolling her eyes. I had to smile. “Yes, I understand you have to check my math. Pull out your calculator and see. I’ll wait.”

As she did that, she glanced around the shop and her gaze snagged on me. Her mouth dropped open and her eyes widened. I was used to the reaction. I was a big guy. Around here, all I was missing was a flannel shirt and an ax to be considered a lumberjack.

I reached for a napkin and tugged it from the dispenser.

What I hadn’t noticed the first time her eyes met mine was that they were green.

Like emeralds, fringed by dark lashes and only magnified by her glasses.

She pushed them up her nose and I found the action strangely endearing, right along with the pencil tucked behind her ear.

She was a tiny thing, maybe an inch or two over five feet.

Just a little peanut in comparison to me.

And young. Early twenties, I guessed, which was practically robbing the cradle since I was pushing forty. Fuck, I felt old. Maybe she was in college and working on some group project.

Shit. Was I eyeing a college coed?

Unlike most women I was used to who wore perfectly fitted dresses or suits at corporate, or even tighter yoga pants and snug tops out and about, this half pint had on loose fitting jeans and a simple long-sleeved shirt.

Not one part of her caught my eye. At first.

But now, with a second and third glance, everything about her was intriguing. Worth another look, which I took. Those jeans couldn’t hide rounded hips or a perfect ass and while her top was simple, the swell of pert breasts was enough to make me need to wipe drool with the napkin I held.

When she realized she was staring–even though I was staring right back–she blushed and looked away, shifted her gaze to the worn wood flooring and her work boot-covered feet.

On top of all that about her, she was shy. Definitely not trying to catch my interest. My smile grew at her… naturalness. Was that even a fucking word? I had no idea but that was this woman.

Young. Pretty.

Great. She was exactly what my father used to like and that made me feel like shit for even looking her way. The last thing I wanted was to be anything like him.

“Yes, I’m still here. Yes.” She spun back to the table, her ponytail whipping around her neck, clearly flustered. I knew I was reasonably good looking and fit, but my size was intimidating.

I was, at thirty-seven, still very single. After all these years, that meant I wasn’t much of a catch to anyone who wasn’t a money-hungry bitch. I steered well clear of those.

Who was this woman and why was I curious about her? Why was I suddenly interested in learning more about her?

I pulled out another napkin.

“That was my math, too,” she continued. “Yes. I’m glad the discrepancy was found.”

The barista held up a glass of iced coffee to catch her attention, then to me with the cinnamon roll big and gooey enough to fill the plate it sat on.

“Look, I have to go,” she said. “The meeting’s this afternoon. Yes, I’ll have all the data ready.”

She ended the call, set her cell on the table beside her papers and went to the counter.

“Problems?” the barista–Eve–asked her.

Bridge shrugged as I stepped up behind her to get my cinnamon roll. “Nothing more than usual. Just a big meeting later and problems to solve.”

“They’re lucky to have you and that big brain of yours,” Eve said sweetly. It was clear they knew each other. Close in age, too. Probably grew up together.

Bridge smiled and paid for her drink. “You’re sweeter than your baked goods for saying that. And this brain’s gotten me into nothing but trouble.”

She tapped her temple as she spoke and spun on her heel and turned right into me. The glass of iced coffee hit my chest and splashed all over it.

I took a step back instinctively. She gasped.

“Shit, I’m so sorry!” she said, setting the now empty glass on the counter, then grabbed the napkins out of my grip.

She started to pat at my shirt to sop up the chilly coffee.

I wore jeans with a dress shirt, my sleeves rolled up because even in Montana, it was a warm summer day.

Now the white cotton had a huge swath of brown and it was dripping down my stomach.

It was cold against my skin, but I barely felt it since Bridge’s little hand was pressing over and over against my abs. Left, right, then moved lower.

And lower.

“I can’t believe I did that.” Her gaze didn’t lift to mine as she tried to tackle the spill. “I’ll pay for your dry cleaning and I–

I grabbed her wrist as she worked her way south toward the button on my jeans. A few inches lower and she’d be patting my dick. While I was all for her becoming acquainted with it, I didn’t want that to happen here.

It seemed I needed more than an iced coffee bath to cool off from this woman’s touch because I was getting hard.

I kept my hold gentle but needed to ensure she didn’t work her way any lower. She was already freaked out enough. I might want to get better acquainted, but I liked the woman who touched my dick–or rode it–to know at least my name.

“Shh, it’s okay,” I murmured.

All I saw was the top of her head as she shook it. Her hair wasn’t just brown but had hints of red and copper in it. I wondered how silky soft it would feel, how it would fall over her shoulders if I tugged out the tie.

“It’s not. Your shirt’s ruined,” she practically moaned.

“Baby, look at me.”

I had no idea where that endearment came from, but it fell from my lips as easily as the smile I offered her when she finally looked up, pencil behind her ear, her glasses perched on her nose and her hand clutching damp napkins.

God, she was cute. I never knew I had a thing for nerdy twenty-somethings.

No, not all of them, just this one in particular.

Instantly, I wanted to reassure her, to make her see it wasn’t anything to be upset about.

“It was an accident. I’m just glad you like iced coffee.” I offered her a smile so she knew I wasn’t upset, rubbed my thumb against her palm. I shouldn’t be doing this… it was like robbing the fucking cradle just talking to her, but I couldn’t help it.

Her eyes widened and she blinked. A flush spread across her cheeks. I didn’t pull away. I couldn’t.

“Still, I’m sorry. Your shirt’s ruined, I’m sure,” she whispered, glancing away, but not moving since I still held her.

“Eyes up here.”

She responded immediately to my request, and I liked that. Too fucking much. I wondered how she’d respond when I took charge in other ways.

Oh shit. No. Not a good idea.

Fuck, yes.

“It’s just a shirt,” I said, my voice rough.

Eve came around the counter and handed me a clean dishcloth. I let go of Bridge to take it, but she snagged it out of her friend’s hand before I could get it. She dropped to her knees to wipe up the floor. There wasn’t much of a mess since it had landed squarely on me, and I was a big guy.

Bridge glanced up at me from her knees, sank her teeth in her plump lower lip and my dirty mind went immediately to her before me just like this, but I was feeding her my dick. How her lips would spread around it. How her eyes would go wide when she realized she wouldn’t be able to take all of me.

I was at least a head taller and weighed close to two-fifty. Big. I was definitely proportionate. Shit. I was trying to be a good guy, a gentleman, but she was on her fucking knees! She was testing the hell out of my restraint and she didn’t even know it.

Because it was fucking obvious she sure as shit was a good girl.

And I wanted to do very bad things to her. The very young woman. Now I could see why my dad liked them young.

I stifled a groan. I was going to hell.

I hadn’t realized Eve had left us until she came back and handed me a t-shirt. “On the house.”

The moment was broken, and I took the shirt, held it up. The coffee shop’s name, Steaming Hotties, was across the chest in a decorative font with Hunter Valley, Montana beneath it. And it was pale pink.

“Might be a little snug,” she added, “but I’m not sure what would fit on you, big guy.”

I had my suitcase in the rental car. I could go out and grab a clean shirt, but it was a kind gesture, and I didn’t want to decline it or her hospitality.

Maybe I’d get her to supply the coffee beans for the inn.

I might only be here a short time to get the construction project back on track, but I’d be in Hunter Valley often and wanted to get to know the community.

Perhaps one member of it in particular. One who seemed to be very talented at math, had a knack for blushing at the smallest things, was a touch awkward and didn’t realize how amazing she looked on her knees.

On top of all that, I had a feeling the sooner I was out of the stained shirt, Bridge would stop looking at me like she kicked my puppy. I wanted her to look at me with those bewitching eyes in other ways. Ways that made me feel like an old fucking man. But one whose dick was rock hard.

So standing in the middle of the coffee shop, I took my shirt off, one button at a time.