Page 3 of Only the Wicked (The Sinful State #1)

Chapter Two

Rhodes

Given she’s hobbling, I offer my arm. She presses down on my forearm, using me like a crutch.

And she thought she could get down without help?

“You from around here?” I ask as we approach the trailhead.

As down-to-earth as she appears, I haven’t picked up on a southern accent, and given I’m a North Carolina native, I’m good at picking up any range of southern dialect.

“I’m from Chicago. Originally.”

“What’re you doing here? Visiting?” That could explain why she’s on her own. She’s not familiar with these trails. Or she’s assuming it’s safer here than Chicago.

“In between jobs.”

It’s conceivable I’m projecting, but I swear her chin tilts higher, defiant, almost daring me to say something negative.

Or projection colors my perception. If I found myself unemployed, booted from the company I founded, I’d be defensive.

“Where all do you plan to travel?” I ask, skirting the unemployment topic.

“Taking it day by day. What about you?”

“I’ll be here through the end of the week.”

“Are you from here?”

“Charlotte.”

“Oh, so is this a day trip for you?”

“No. Charlotte’s not that close, and while I was born in Charlotte, I live in San Francisco. I spent a few days with my grandmother and now I’m just…” I let the words trail as I’ve said too much to this stranger.

“That’s sweet.”

Yes, I’ve said too much. She’s looking at me with interest. It’s the grandmother reference. “I don’t make it back here that often.”

“How do you like San Francisco?”

Not my favorite . “It’s fine.”

“That’s not a resounding endorsement.”

I bite back a chuckle at her observation. She’s right. San Francisco shall not receive a Rhodes MacMillan endorsement.

We reach a particularly steep spot, which is more of a four-foot drop. On the way up, I climbed this piece one-handed, preserving my injured elbow. Red dust puffs beneath my running shoes when I hop down. I hold out both arms.

“Jump. I’ll catch you.”

“I’ll knock you down. I’m too big. Move.”

Her face screws up like me catching her is the worst idea in the world, and I bark out a laugh. No…I’m actually laughing. I almost forgot what it feels like to laugh.

“You’re not big. What else are you going to do?”

I’m now closer to eye level with her bent leg and inspect the injury.

Compared to her other knee, there’s no noticeable swelling, but the boots and thick socks hide her ankle.

The bloody knee does nothing to diminish the appeal of her spectacular legs.

A runner’s legs that would probably look phenomenal in heels and a short skirt.

Hell, they’re eye-catching now in Umbro shorts and hiking boots.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

She’s being ridiculous. I’m at least a foot taller than her, and I lift three times a week and have maintained my workout regime for decades.

“Jump,” I insist.

She bends closer to me with outstretched arms. The dirt below her boots crumbles and tiny rocks cascade down the trail.

“Come on, I’ve got you,” I encourage.

She leaps forward, and I catch her, flat against my torso.

Her arms are over my shoulders, and her brown eyes are inches from mine, the brown a lighter shade, the flecks of color closer to topaz than gold this close up.

My gaze falls to her lips, full and pale pink, glossy as if she just licked them.

My dick hardens, and my hands grip her sides, putting distance between us. I just met this woman. She doesn’t need to feel that. I shift, looking down, willing my body to calm down while double-checking my khaki shorts conceal that unexpected response.

“You okay?” she asks from behind me.

“Can’t believe you thought you’d take this path on your own.” Feeling like I’m in the clear, I turn slightly, offering her my arm, and take the lead, stepping slightly in front just in case she slides.

“While I appreciate your help, with the right stick, I could’ve made it down.”

I bite back a derogatory response. “Do you go hiking by yourself often?”

“Yes.”

“Is that wise?”

“Probably smarter than going rock climbing by myself.”

“Do you climb?”

“When I can. I was planning on hitting Linville Gorge tomorrow, but I don’t think I’ll be doing that now with this leg. I’ll see how it is tomorrow.”

“What’s injured? The knee or the ankle?”

“Both.” Her lips twist.

“You slipped?”

“Slammed down hard on my knee. Ankles a little sore, but it’s probably fine.”

“Rock climbing’s inadvisable.” I’m stating the obvious, but she might benefit. “I planned to climb today. My elbow.” I lift my right elbow for emphasis. “Giving it a rest.”

“What’s wrong? Tennis elbow?”

“Something like that. Tendonitis. Extends into the forearm.”

“Do you play tennis? Golf?”

“Not enough to get injured. I climb.” I have a rock wall in my penthouse. Memberships at multiple climbing gyms. But the reason I climb is for the chance to push myself outdoors, in the elements. I love the challenge.

“I love to climb, too.” My gaze falls to her hands.

Short, unpainted nails. I reach for the hand that’s not clutching my arm and run a finger along the underside, confirming callouses.

“Didn’t believe me?” She grins. “That’s a reason I climb.”

“What is?”

“The look on men’s faces when I outclimb them.”

There are plenty of women who climb, but I understand what she means. I get why she’d be proud of excelling in an area dominated by men.

“So you’re a badass,” I say with all due respect. “Too bad we can’t go climbing together on this trip.”

“We can find other things to do.”

Is that innuendo? No. It’s just the way you want to read it, Rhodes.

And why not? She’s attractive. For once, she’s not someone I work with. And we’re far from San Francisco and Silicon Valley. She has no idea who I am. She’s not a journalist or a photographer.

“What’s your name?”

“Sydney.” Her left leg slides on loose gravel and I grip her arm, bending my legs to help her until she regains her balance. “What’s your name?”

“Rhodes.”

She didn’t give her last name, so I won’t give mine. Excellent. She can’t Google me.

“Nice to meet you, Rhodes. I do appreciate your help.”

I grunt, instead of stating the obvious that she needed my help. “Where are you staying?”

“Old Edwards Inn.”

“You don’t say. Me too.”

She shrugs her shoulders. “It’s got the best ratings in the area. It’s cute, right? I love it. Wish I was staying longer than a week.”

It’s my favorite place in the Highlands. I love the history and the connection to a small, enduring mountain town. But it’s not cheap.

What does this woman do that she can afford to stay there while between jobs?

Does it matter? All that really says is she’s done well, or maybe she’s got a trust fund. If you ask, you risk falling into a line of questions you don’t want to answer.

“And you said you return home at the end of the week?”

“I didn’t say that.” Her coy smile confuses me, something she must pick up on, because she adds, “You said you’re going back at the end of the week.”

“Oh. Then what are your plans?”

“I haven’t decided. I’m taking it day by day, remember?”

That’s right. What must it be like to have an empty calendar? No investors tracking your every move. Or board members questioning every decision.

A comfortable silence falls between us, until she breaks it, saying, “I said I’m from Chicago, meaning I was born there. My old job was in D.C. I haven’t decided where I’ll live. Checking this place out. Considering here. Is that crazy?”

“No. I love this state. It’s a great place to live.

” As the keynote speaker to the Stanford class of 2023, I spoke of the importance of loving where you live.

I’d been thinking of my home state, of growing up here, of simpler times.

“Are you ready to settle down? Is that why you’re considering a small town? ”

She laughs. The sound is light and carefree and rings across the wind like a chime.

“Is that a no?”

“To settling down?”

I lift a shoulder, gesturing affirmatively. It’s not a crazy question. Or maybe it doesn’t feel crazy to me because at forty-one there are those in my life who lob the question at me all the time and have for years.

“There might be a job opportunity here. But it’ll involve a lot of travel, so no, not settling down.”

Her gaze drifts through the trees, and I sense a change in topic is advisable.

What does one talk about other than work? Politics? Absolutely not. The economy? The value of the dollar?

“What was growing up in Charlotte like?”

Her question has me smiling. She saved me.

“No complaints. It’s a good place to grow up. Was.” My eyebrows lift as the weight of how much time has passed sinks in. “Twenty years ago.”

I’m not sure where to go with that, so I step quietly, wading through a sense of nostalgia.

“Did you learn to climb out here? In the North Carolina mountains?”

Once again, she saves me with her conversational direction.

“Not really. More out West. But I’ll come back one day.

Hit places like Linville Gorge.” I pause, wondering if I should throw it out there.

The angle women love. And, what the hell.

It’s a means to an end and a benign tactic.

“One day we’ll come back together. When we’re all healed, we’ll see who’s the better climber.

” She flushes. Referencing a joint future is always an easy win. “What skill level are you?”

“Expert.”

A lift of the eyebrow, a jut of the chin. Proud of her abilities. I chuckle. Yeah, she’s a lot like me.

We share climbing stories the rest of the way down. It takes us about twice as long with her bum leg, but it’s all good. To Sydney without a last name, I’m a random guy who helped her down a mountain.

We reach our cars; two of four cars parked in the gravel lot. We didn’t cross any other hikers, which means they chose the long way.

Her car’s parked further away than mine, but there’s a gravitational pull I can’t control pulling me to my rental.

I’m a fucking idiot. I should help her to her car, then grab the phone. It’s a fucking addiction.

I sling the door open and snatch the phone from the charger.

Fifty-five missed messages.

“Everything okay?”

I click the screen and skim the notifications. Nothing requiring immediate action, but the pattern of messages from investors, board members, and our CFO gnaws at me. The message from Daisy is the only one I care to see.

Daisy Jonas

Got what u need

Excellent. I toss the phone onto the seat and head to Sydney, arm out for her. My car door’s open, but that’s fine. No one is going to hop out of the bushes and nab my phone.

When we arrive at her vehicle, a small-sized SUV, I tuck a strand of hair that escaped from her ponytail. The move is instinctive, but my breath catches, waiting for her reaction. A breeze picks up and I inhale a light floral scent. I’m so close her perfume mingles with the outdoors.

Her dark eyes flicker to mine, and she pushes higher, brushing her soft lips over mine. The unexpected touch rushes through me, from my mouth, down my spine, to my groin.

Her cheeks flush and I grasp her wrist, stopping her before she can pull away. I didn’t expect a kiss, but I’m not averse. No, she and I are on the same page.

“Go to dinner with me.”

The words come out before I fully process them. Maybe it’s the mountain air, or maybe it’s been too long since I met someone who doesn’t know my net worth before my name. Either way, I want to see her again.