Page 31

Rhys

M y brothers are pains in my ass, but I’ll give them this: They know when to make themselves scarce.

They introduce themselves as they’re melting back toward the house—“Quinn, nice to meet you, sorry I have to go check on the dogs”; “Preston, Rhys’s oldest brother, I need to call the carpeting guy back so he’ll have what he needs in the morning”; “Shane, Rhys’s movie-star brother, and I apologize heartily if you met my ass before my face—this is probably a letdown for you. ”

And then they’re gone, and it’s just Eden and me.

“You should have told me what was at stake,” she says.

“You should have trusted me. Instead you let me think you stayed all that time because you cared about me ,” she says.

“You let me think you stayed with me all the way to Sioux Falls because you were a good guy. But you did all that shit—cooking dinner and stopping at the quilt show and buying the frog slippers and…all of it!—because you wanted to stay on my good side, so you could talk me into getting back together with Paul, so your sister wouldn’t lose her business. ”

She’s talking so fast, and her voice is so tight and tear-laced that it takes me a moment to understand what’s happened. But then I get it. Someone filled her in on the whole big picture with the will.

“Eden,” I start. Because she has it all wrong.

“You could have told me at any time during that whole trip that what you wanted was for me to marry Paul. That you needed me to marry Paul. We could have figured something out. Maybe I could even have?—”

“No,” I say flatly.

“You didn’t let me finish the sentence.”

“That’s because I know what you were going to say, and the answer is no fucking way.”

“We could have done some kind of fake wedding. Something.”

“You still would have had to stand at an altar with that asshole.”

“And maybe that wouldn’t have been so bad. If your family’s land and business are at stake?—”

“No,” I say again, and it sounds even harder, more brittle, and she flinches, takes a step back. We’re both breathing hard again, like we’ve run a hundred miles to get to this point, which maybe we have.

“You’re right that I should have told you.

And you’re right that it was selfish of me not to tell you.

But you’re dead fucking wrong about why I did it.

It wasn’t because I wanted to get you and Paul back together.

The absolute dead fucking last thing I wanted was for you and Paul to get back together, because?—”

My words have gone rough and gravelly, and it’s not too late to hold them back, it’s not too late to be a good man.

But I’m not a good man.

“—because I wanted you for myself. So, no, you’re not going to marry Paul or fake marry Paul or anything even remotely in that ballpark.”

She stares at me, wide eyed.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you what was at stake and I’m sorry I let you think I was a good guy doing a good thing when I’m actually a selfish bastard and I’m sorry?—”

“Stop,” she says.

“I couldn’t do right by you and Hanna?—”

“Rhys,” she says more sharply. “Shut the fuck up.”

I do.

Somehow, we’ve gotten closer, so close that I can see the gold-and-amber flecks in the green of her eyes, so I can see the small spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

And somehow her hands have wrapped themselves around my forearms, and they’re gripping me tight.

Somehow, somehow, my hands are in her hair, twisting in the strands, so I can hold her head perfectly in place, so I can see her gaze settle hungrily on my mouth, so I can watch her lips part just before I claim her.

Mine, the kiss says.

From the first instant, it’s not enough. I have her lips, but I want her tongue. I tease the seam of her mouth, and she opens to me, our tongues tangling and jousting. She moans into my mouth, and my cock hardens so fast that I get lightheaded.

I angle my head, chasing the silk of her tongue, trying to tell her with this kiss—in case it’s the only one, the last one—how much I need and want her.

Her body is slim and willowy but surprisingly strong.

She presses herself to me like she’s trying to get as close as she can, and her eagerness lights me on fire.

I palm her—slender shoulders, the small of her back, the sweet, modest curve of her ass.

She arches into me, seeking more, and when I raise my hand, she gives a soft moan of relief and presses her breast into my palm.

The gesture almost destroys me—it’s so needy and so trusting at the same time.

All I can do is give her what she wants, cupping my hand around the small but perfect curve of her breast, finding the needy tip with finger and thumb and teasing until she’s half-riding my thigh, while I keep kissing her, the kisses getting deeper and messier, broken up with moans and nips and soft curses.

I can tell that if I keep going, I’ll make her come, right here in?—

I freeze. And slowly draw back. I close off the kiss. I gently peel us apart, setting her back from my overheated body, putting space between us.

Her eyes comb over my face, fearful and hopeful.

“I’m staying in Quinn and Sonya’s guesthouse,” I say. “Want to come inside for a drink?”

Her sudden grin is a spark in the dark, and in the firelight, she is disheveled and hazy eyed and unbelievably beautiful.

“Thought you’d never ask,” she says.