His lips brushed mine softly. I let that happen.
“I see too much canoodling and not enough carrying,” a voice called.
I was grateful to Harriet for many things already, but for this, I loved her fully.
As it was, Duke’s muttered promise of “later” didn’t come to pass.
I told myself repeatedly that this was a good thing, that this was the best thing, the only thing that would keep me sane in this place.
I didn’t know how long I was going to be here for, but the only thing worse than acting like I was someone to Duke in front of his family was him acting like I was something to him when no one else was around.
Harriet was my lifesaver. My hero.
Not just because of the cabin.
And this brought me to tears. Actual tears. Ones I’d been sure I’d never be able to spill unless a camera was rolling somewhere.
“Of course, we have this cleaned on a weekly basis,” Harriet said after she opened the door and ushered me inside. “Just in case...” she trailed off, her eyes darting to the window where Duke was visible unpacking the car. As macho and as scary as he was, even he wasn’t about to try and argue with his grandmother.
She was strong, seemed so solid. So even. But I saw it with that glance out the window. The pain in her eyes. The love. There were wounds in this family. Gaps.
And they all seemed to be centered around Duke.
Harriet didn’t give me much time to contemplate this because she recovered quickly, moving to fluff some pillows on the white-slip sofa.
“But there were some touches I wanted to make before you both came in.”
She was already walking toward the kitchen.
The living room and kitchen was open plan. After walking through the small but beautifully decorated foyer, you faced a wall of windows, showing the beauty of the ranch.
The living room was similar to the one at the homestead, all earth-toned, slightly bohemian, warm, inviting, impeccably decorated in a way even a celebrity designer couldn’t replicate. More photos in frames on every surface, including a few artfully arranged on the hammered white concrete coffee table. Another impressive, stone fireplace with photos on the mantel. A chandelier hanging from the ceiling looked like it was covered in multiple candles.
I ached to take my time, explore every inch of this home that was made for Duke—because even on first glance, it was him. Despite the fact I didn’t even really know him, it was. It wasn’t harsh, masculine, in grays and sharp angles. No, it was a side of him that no one would likely ever know—only a woman who was soft, kind, and knew how to coax all of that out of him. It wasn’t me.
Harriet wasn’t about to let me soak it all in.
“I had to stock the essentials,” she called from the fridge, which, from where I could see, was fully stocked. When I came closer, there was an entire shelf filled with champagne.
A loud pop reverberated through the room as she opened one. “We’ve got to christen it,” she said with a pause and a wicked grin. “Well, of course you and Duke can christen it properly later, but that’s after the champagne.”
She reached into a cupboard to retrieve flutes, pouring expertly before handing me one.
Still, she didn’t stop, talking or walking, didn’t give me a chance to catch up.
She ushered me out of the kitchen, down a wide hallway—more photos on the walls—and past some closed doors. “Boring stuff,” she explained. “A study. Another bedroom. Laundry room...tick.” She opened the door at the end of the hall. “But this, this is the best part of the place.”
I would’ve choked on my champagne had I not swallowed before the door opened.
Walking in, there was another wall of windows, this one facing the mountain ranges. French doors opened onto a small patio area with wicker furniture and a fire pit. There were comfy-looking armchairs on either side of the doors, maybe designed to look at the view when it was too cold out. The four-poster bed faced the windows and was covered in luxurious throws, pillows and a beautiful comforter.
“There’s a walk-in closet, of course,” Harriet said. “Not huge, but doable. We can always get it extended...you know if things change.” She waggled her eyebrows meaningfully.
My stomach dropped again, but not like it had with Duke’s hands on my hips. This was like someone had cut it open, let all my insides spill out. Harriet was already planning on making changes in this place to accommodate me, after knowing me for only a couple days.
“The master bath is absolutely epic,” she continued, luckily turning her back on me so I didn’t have to perfect my mask.
That Harriet uttered the word ‘epic’ and somehow pulled it off didn’t even get through to me.
I was too busy trying to breathe through that stone that had come up from the bottom of my stomach to my throat.
Harriet was still saying things about the shower pressure, the bathtub, the shower, most likely cheeky things full of double entendre. I couldn’t enjoy them, though.
I was too busy standing in the middle of a beautiful bedroom that Duke’s family had designed and preserved for their son, with the hope that he would come back to them. Not only that, the hope that he would come back with a woman, with a family. I wasn’t blind to what those other rooms were…for Duke and a family. They had kept this because they had faith in their son.
Had hope.
And the happiness was pulsating through Harriet, through all of them, peppered with the sadness I was yet to understand. But it was because of me. Because I witnessed a murder and forced Duke back here. Forced him to create this lie that brought his family happiness and hope.
A lie that had an expiration date. One that would have Duke leaving once again, that would ensure that I would never come back to this place. Even though, inexplicably, I wanted it to be mine. I wanted to abandon everything in LA so I could live here—after two fucking days.
I was not an emotional person. That was hammered out of me quickly, cleanly and harshly in my childhood. But here I was, crying in the middle of a bedroom that would never be mine, for a man that already belonged to someone else—even if he hadn’t met her yet.
Of course, this was the moment that Duke walked into the bedroom, carrying the bags, his muscles taunting me with the way they bulged from the weight, his presence immediately sticking to me, clinging to me and embedding itself underneath my skin.
I tried to recover, there was no way I wanted him to see me like this, for him to have this part of me. But it was too late, he was far too observant.
He dumped the bags on the floor carelessly—something that should’ve pissed me off, considering they were all I had on this ranch to tether me to my previous life—and was in front of me in two strides. His hands cupped my face in a gesture that was far too intimate for this moment. For this situation. For this life.
“What, baby?” he demanded, searching me as if he’d missed a bullet or stab wound.
There it was again.
Baby.
The word was meant to be soft and comforting, but it scraped against my skin, drawing blood.
I tried to struggle from his grip, but he wasn’t about to let me.
“Stop calling me baby,” I hissed, mindful of Harriet still arranging things in the bathroom.
Amusement danced with his concern. “Not on your life.”