A Cowboy Under Her Tree. Allison Leigh
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T-shirt was gone.
She dragged her eyes away from the dusty brown hair swirling across his chest and arrowing down a ridged abdomen that should have been winter pale, but wasn’t.
The last man she’d occasionally dated in Atlanta had been exactly six-one, worked out two hours a day, ran marathons and religiously waxed his chest. He’d been more beautiful than most women, utterly sophisticated and, amazingly enough, he’d been straight.
But for some ungodly reason, the appeal of Russ’s masculinity soared to a universe far beyond Michael’s. She’d never once contemplated becoming intimate with Michael, any more than she’d considered it with any of the other men who’d escorted her over the years.
That was, until she’d met this irritating man.
Now, she seemed to struggle with those unfamiliar thoughts every time she turned around and she knew if he knew that she’d managed to attain the age of thirty without sleeping with a man, he’d have a field day with the knowledge.
She was five-seven, but she still wished she hadn’t been so quick to remove her shoes as she sailed past Russ and all his appallingly glorious muscle and flesh into the spacious bathroom beyond the king-size bed, because he seemed larger than ever.
She closed the door and leaned back against it, stupidly feeling as if she needed to catch her breath. As if she’d just run some sort of gauntlet.
It was so ridiculous. Melanie didn’t get breathless over men, much less men who figured she wasn’t worth the time of day.
A mirror across from the door reflected her image and she stared hard at herself. Made herself remember just what she was working to accomplish here.
It had nothing to do with personal relationships, and everything to do with business.
That was who she was.
She let out a long breath. Ran her hand through her hair and straightened deliberately from the door. She was merely overreacting to the stress of the situation.
That was all.
Feeling more like herself, she reached for one of the twin robes that were provided by the resort. The shower was separate from the oversize, jetted tub and she turned it on, letting the rushing sound of water continue the job of soothing her jagged nerves. Moving more quickly than her swimming head was comfortable with earned her a stubbed toe and soap in her eyes when she washed her face. There were small complimentary tubes of toothpaste but no toothbrushes, and as she made do with a nubby washcloth and her finger to do the job, she vowed that the Hopping H would not be remiss in that area.
On the other hand, the soaps and lotions provided were about as heavenly as anything that McFarlane House hotels had ever provided. Showered and clean, she tossed aside the towel and folded herself into the smaller of the two thick terry robes. She rinsed out her lingerie and commandeered the robe hangers for them and her dress which she hung on the back of the bathroom door and opened it again, and acting as if she had blinders on, tossed the larger robe in the general direction of the bed as she strode back out to the living area.
Only Russ was stretched out on the couch, his ankles propped on one arm, his head on the other. He’d dragged one of the soft blankets halfway up his chest. One hand hung off the couch, propped on the ottoman. His other was thrown over his head.
Sound asleep.
She pressed her lips together, thoroughly disconcerted.
“Go before I change my mind,” he muttered softly.
Not sound asleep, she quickly revised.
She turned on her bare heel and fled back into the bedroom, softly closing the door behind her.
His ivory sweater was still in a heap on the foot of the bed. Feeling very odd about it, she picked it up, laying it out over the bare pine dresser top.
His T-shirt was on the floor and she gave it a wide berth as she pulled back the thick red comforter that topped the bed. The linens were crisp and fresh when she climbed between them and sighing, she sank into the downy pillows.
By all rights, exhaustion and alcohol should have assured her of immediate sleep.
So, naturally, the moment she turned off the lamp next to the bed, all she did was stare, wide-eyed, into the darkness.
Dawn had barely broken when Russ gave up trying to sleep.
He tossed back the blanket and sat up on the couch, shoving his hands through his hair, pressing the heels of his palms into his eye sockets.
He ought to be following his own advice of getting some sleep.
Too bad every time he’d closed his eyes, his imagination had gone into torture mode.
Probably what he got for trading six months of so-called marriage for a hunk of land that he’d been wanting ever since he’d assumed control of the Flying J after his dad died. Jasper Chilton had been more than happy to keep the Flying J just as it had been when he’d taken it over from his father.
But not Russ.
Hell, no. He had to want more, and look where it had landed him.
Promising to marry a woman no more suitable for him than Nola had been.
At least this time his eyes were wide-open. He was more than a decade older than the twenty-one-year-old kid he’d been back then, and no ridiculous notions of love were clouding his brain these days. Who knew what would happen? Maybe the next six months would be far less torturous than the two years of wedded “bliss” that he and Nola had shared before she’d permanently hared off back to the bosom of her Bostonian family.
Most importantly, this time he’d be able to keep what he wanted out of the deal.
Half of the Hopping H was a poor comparison for the loss of the son he never saw anymore, but it was the only positive note on the horizon as far as Russ could see.
So he’d take what he could get.
Even if it meant playing house for a while with Melanie McFarlane.
He pushed off the couch and found coffee makings in the kitchen, probably taking too much pleasure in the noise he was making while he was about it. But if she wanted to know more what ranching life was supposed to be about, she’d damn sure better get used to rising with the chickens.
He’d built himself up a fine head of steam about the matter by the time the coffeepot was half full. He yanked out the pot, stuck his mug beneath the steaming stream from the coffeemaker until it was full, then stuck the pot back in place. Feeling stifled inside the cozy cabin, he shoved open the wide door that led out onto the wraparound-style porch and went outside, mug in hand.
The cold doused him from bare feet to bare head, and he let out a long sigh.
As far as his eye could see were signs that Thunder Canyon would never again be the hometown where he’d grown up. There were more schools. More shopping centers. More this. More that.
Even now, despite the early hour, he could see the dots of people working their way along the ski slopes even though the lift wasn’t yet running. From one of the resort’s restaurants—probably the Grubstake—he could already smell the scent of frying bacon.
His stomach rumbled.
Too many beers last night and not enough food.
Another thing that would be easy to blame on her.
Only his parents hadn’t raised him to shuck off his own responsibilities. Melanie hadn’t held a gun to his head.
He’d jumped without a parachute after the carrot she’d dangled all on his own.
“Good Lord. Have you lost your mind? It’s freezing out there.”
He looked over his shoulder at her. “Well, well. If it isn’t the future Mrs. Chilton.”