by Claire Cain
I grabbed the handles to both giant rolling suitcases and pulled them with me, thankful the dirt driveway was frozen solid. This would be just lovely when the ground thawed in a few months. Who knew if I’d still be here.
I heaved the two bags up the short staircase right to the door, with my purse and canvas bag of groceries over one shoulder, then knocked. No answer. But there was definitely someone in there, and I’d checked the reservation—I was only ten minutes late. So… I went in.
“Hello?”
Inside, the light was soft, and warmth from the glowing fire emanated down the hall. That scent of real wood burning made it feel immediately cozy, though I hadn’t seen more than the entryway. It felt welcoming. Well, aside from that whole missing host thing.
“Hello?” I projected my voice a little more.
A crash of some kind sounded farther in, followed by a low muttered curse.
I left the door open but abandoned my suitcases. If I had to make a break for it, I didn’t want to have any barriers. Granted, where I’d break to would be a problem considering we were miles from anything. I straightened my spine and pulled my shoulders back, then shuffled inside, the rubberized soles of my leather boots not making a sound on the stone floor of the entryway.
Just as I reached the end of the hallway, a towering figure arrived, backlit by the lights behind him.
“Shoot. I’m sorry.” He stepped to the side and waved a hand for me to continue into the living room. He then followed me into the brightly lit space. A fire roared from the stone fireplace in the center of the room. It wasn’t huge, but everything in it looked plush, clean, and comfortable, decorated in creams and natural colors with little pops of deep teal.
Thank Goodness! No way would a serial killer have teal throw pillows.
“I’m Wyatt. I think my brother mentioned I’d be meeting you today?”
He moved to the counter of the small kitchen, where a stack of papers and a set of keys waited. He still hadn’t actually looked at me, which was fine by me. If he never did, he wouldn’t recognize me, and that made life that much easier.
The voice, though. He had a very good voice. I had a thing for voices, which made some sense, considering I now earned my living with mine. Well, and my body, but that thought had grown more and more depressing lately.
But his voice? Rich and low, a little rumbly. Like if I put my head on his chest, the sound would fill up his whole body and spill over into mine, too. Except that’s a really weird thought to have about a potential murderer’s voice.
He was tall. Not towering, but I was five-ten, so it was a rare man who full-on towered. But he had at least four inches on me, which I appreciated. Granted, he did have boots on to give him a little lift—brown leather cowboy boots from the looks of it.
Wait, do I need cowboy boots? Probably. But now’s not the time, brain!
His shoulders were broad inside a canvas-looking jacket, and he seemed built, but he also wore the outer layer plus some kind of plaid something that stuck out from under it, so he might’ve been hiding a giant beer belly and it’d be hard to tell.
Unlikely, based on this view, my rude, lascivious little brain whispered as I took note of his jeans and, honest to goodness—wait, really? Brown leather chaps. I wanted to laugh, but they looked… good. I’d never gone for the cowboy rough rider look but hi. Maybe I’d been missing out.
They framed his—
He looked like—
He broke my brain.
The probably-not-a-serial-killer brother-of-the-host chap-wearing cowboy-man straight up wiped my mind.
I cleared my throat, despite years of being reprimanded for the habit, grasping for the thread of the conversation. “He did, yes.”
“Good. Good.” Then finally, he looked up.
That didn’t help one bit, because my chappified brain only saw crystal-blue eyes on a face so rough and handsome, so unpolished and yet overtly beautiful, I let out a weird little gust of air and forgot completely about hiding my face from him.
TWO
Wyatt
I was not expecting a woman.
When Warrick told me to meet a guy named Callaway Rice at his new StayBnB rental sitting just a few hundred yards from our house, I said sure.
Should’ve been simple. Show up. Meet the guy and let him in. Show him around. Get home and start dinner before passing out after a long and mostly empty day.
I was not expecting a woman, and yet, there she was. And of course, I’d realized it was a woman when she came in, but I’d been so distracted, worried I’d forget to tell her something, that I didn’t take her in until this moment.
And… how? How had I not sensed it? How had I not known in some core part of me when she entered the house? I spent ninety percent of my time around men except for the paltry handful of dates I made myself go on each month. She should’ve felt different.
She did, now that I let myself notice.
This was one sincerely beautiful woman. And I couldn’t actually see all that much of her. Dark eyes stared back at me from under the brim of a cap pulled almost comically low. Dark hair, pitch-black, spilled over her shoulder in a long, fancy-looking braid. Each feature on her face that I could see looked perfectly shaped—cheekbones high and smooth, nose just right, full dusky pink lips, and… whatever else. Damn, if she’d just remove that hat. I studied her, wanting to piece together what she really looked like under there.
Which was clearly written on my face, because she winced. I shifted my eyes away for fear of making her uncomfortable. I was a fairly imposing man, and despite her being quite tall, she was still smaller than me, and a woman, and from way out of town.
Not ideal to freak out the new tenant.
“So, Wi-Fi password is there. Instructions for the heating are also there. The fire’s going strong, and the rest of the house should heat up quick. Warrick will swing by around nine tomorrow, or whatever time you arranged, to give you the full spiel. Questions?”
I felt her eyes on me but didn’t look again. Partly because I’d evidently creeped her out, and partly because I suspected I’d end up staring at her again. Something about her just grabbed at me—a feeling I didn’t remember ever having. Granted, I dragged through the days with as much feeling as a zombie, so maybe it wasn’t all that remarkable.
“Are you wearing chaps?”
I coughed, choking on air.
“Yes?” I dared a glance back at her.
She looked as surprised as I was that she’d asked the question.
“Huh. Okay.”
Odd woman. “Well, uh, anything else I can do for you?”
She surveyed the space, then swiped her phone, and her shoulders relaxed. “No, I’m good.”
Nodding, I turned and immediately made my way to the door. “Call the number on the listing if you have any issues at all. We’re not too far. And Warrick’ll see you tomorrow.”
With a quiet farewell, she shut the door behind me. I took the knit cap from my pocket and pulled it down over my head. I’d skipped shucking the chaps because it hadn’t occurred to me the sight might be unusual. And also, they’d kept me warm on the walk to the little house, and now back to my place.
It’d be interesting having someone else around. Warrick was in town a lot more after he’d purchased a house down there to fix up now that he’d finished this place. I didn’t mind the solitude. I’d grown used to it in the past few years, but after the breakup with Samantha, the distance from town seemed to have multiplied.
Was it the breakup? Part of me had pegged this dragging, dull quality to life lately on that. In truth, I couldn’t honestly say whether it was or not. I only knew I hadn’t felt a kick in my chest like the one I’d experienced when Callaway Rice turned up since… probably ever. Since well before I’d pared back at work. Not even when I gave it a try with Leonie Morrison—known to most as simply Leo—and realized we were better as friends. That had been a few years ago, and though it’d dashed my hopes for a bit
, I’d accepted that dating Leo seriously and then having it fizzle would’ve made my friendships with her three brothers rather awkward. In the end, she’d belonged with her now-husband Jonas Bauer, and I was happy for them.
Point was, I hadn’t been interested like this in ages.
So not being alone? I’d take it.
If that someone happened to be a beautiful woman?
Fine by me.
Warrick crashed through the door an hour later. Genuinely, the man collided with the panel and somehow made the knob turn in order to get inside. For someone who could be so nimble on his feet, he was one of the noisiest people I’d ever met. Basically the opposite of our middle brother, Wilder, who could be standing next to you for a full five minutes before you even sensed him, the creep.
“Did you meet him? Everything good?” he hollered from the mudroom just off the garage.
I bit back a small smile and along with it, the urge to say something like, If by him you mean a dangerously beautiful woman, then yes. Instead, I shook the pan, swishing around the sautéing vegetables just as the rice maker beeped. “Yeah, I did. It’s all good.”
“Why do you sound weird?” he asked, dumping an armful of grocery bags on the counter.
Even if he was noisy, he tended to be tidy, thankfully. I didn’t think of myself as particularly fussy, but messes made my skin crawl. Wait, was that plastic I heard?
“Didn’t I send you with reusable bags?”
He flattened his lips. “I forgot them in the car. I was cold and wanted to get it done with. I’ll pay my penance by saving each one and using it for a special project. I’ll braid them into sustainably woven baskets to hold organic apples or something. It’ll be fine.”
“Sure you will.”
The fridge door clunked open. I cringed, but at least he couldn’t see me while I nudged the chicken with a wooden spoon and refused to watch him thunk the three eighteen-packs of eggs down like they were deflated footballs and not flimsy cardboard holding something delicate and breakable.
“I will. Anyway, everything go okay with the occupant? Nice dude?”
I chuckled. There has never been a woman less dude-like in the history of mankind. Even with her hat covering half her face. But there were so few surprises in life, and I wanted him to have the same little discovery I’d had when he met her tomorrow. He’d waltz in expecting the image he’d crafted of the person behind the name, and instead, he’d find this surprisingly tall, striking woman. Not that I wanted him to find her beautiful. Not that I cared. Whatever.
“Seemed nice enough. Tired from travel. Asked if I was wearing chaps.” I turned and saw him startle.
“Really?”
“Well, I was. But yeah. Not sure why that was such a surprising sight, but there you have it.”
“Huh. Guess Callaway Rice is more of a city person.”
I stifled my laugh then. I had no idea if she was a city person. I didn’t know a thing about her but wouldn’t mind finding out.
Ironic that a truly interesting person had moved in directly next door when I’d been scouring an app, searching for even a whiff of that same desire I felt with Calla for a few seconds with what felt like innumerable women. Maybe that was the power of meeting someone in real life.
Or maybe it’s just this woman.
Bags rustled as he unloaded the rest of the groceries. I dished up rice and stir-fry into shallow bowls and topped them with thin-sliced scallions and a sprinkle of toasted sesame seeds. I’d started following this food blogger lately, because my life had become pathetic, and she was big on garnishes. I’d held out for a while, but once I caved, I realized just what a difference they made to both presentation and flavor.
“This looks amazing. I’m starving.” He grabbed his plate and a glass of water and shuffled to the table situated right here in the kitchen with a view out to the living room. Mom and Grandma Tilda had been ahead of their time when they designed the space decades ago.
Granted, we’d updated since, especially in the last few years as the business had grown. I’d even built on to add an office. There was just no point having to commute to a job that already involved a fair amount of local travel.
Or, used to. Hiring managers and stepping back had changed that significantly. Which was what I’d wanted.
I’d been exhausted—burnt like well-done steak left on another ten minutes. So… this was good. Hiring help had been the right move, and having this time was all perfectly in line with what I’d said I wanted.
Right.
The disconnect with real life, losing track of the way time passed in a given day, week, or month—that, I hadn’t anticipated.
“Should be good. I used a new sauce. See what you think.”
I said this as though he wouldn’t tell me. Warrick was the most generous person I knew in pretty much every way. That went from sharing his thoughts on something you fed him to letting his first-ever tenant in his new rental home sign up for thirty-day occupancy.
He groaned long and low, then shoved another heaping forkful into his mouth, and I took that as his approval. The cabbage, carrots, and red peppers tossed in with the ground chicken I’d browned with grated ginger and garlic did turn out well. We loved beef around here, of course, but were both fairly health-conscious, which meant we couldn’t actually eat beef every day or we’d be in trouble.
We sat quietly, both wolfing down the food with a lack of manners that would make our mother howl, but she wasn’t here. She’d lived with us for a long time, but about six years ago, she’d had it with the distance from town.
“So, I had an idea.”
I smothered the smile that immediately jumped to my lips. This was the phrase that echoed around the world every time Warrick thought up another scheme. It was also something that made me look forward—what would Warrick do? What amazing plan would he have next? I didn’t thank God for my little brother enough.
“Yeah? Do tell.”
He snuggled down in his seat, leaning back against the carved wood chair. They were simple, but so comfortable. Grandma’s boyfriend, Rex, had carved them years ago, like a decent amount of the wood furniture in the house. He’d never lived here, but he probably should’ve. Would’ve been fun to have had a man around.
“Fitness bootcamp in the old mill building.”
He said this like I’d know what that meant, but I didn’t need to respond. After gulping down the rest of his meal, he ran through the idea. His excitement, the perpetual energy he brought to everything he did, buoyed me. Like it had many times over the years.
And some of that constant tightness that lived in my chest eased. Life would go on, and it would be okay.
THREE
Calla
Guilt washed over me as I sent Jenna’s call to voicemail. I loved her. She was as close to a best friend as I’d ever had, but I couldn’t talk to her right now.
I also deleted texts from six of my people, ignored a voicemail from my manager again, and generally sank into hermit mode. Come on in, the water’s warm!
I didn’t want to talk to anyone right now. Especially right now as I sat perched on a bar stool and ate a second bowl of cereal—a substance I rarely touched—in as many days.
The problem with deciding to live up in a remote location with no staff or resources if you couldn’t cook a thing? You couldn’t expect to eat much.
Luckily, the serving I’d had for dinner last night had been compulsory more than something driven by hunger. I hadn’t felt truly hungry in a while. Modeling professionally helped to ignore those hunger signs in my body. And while it’d been over a decade since the height of my days as a model, I’d used that often enough in the next iteration of my career too.
My stomach pitched as the memory of the last few months barged in. I dropped the spoon into my half-eaten bowl and stormed into the kitchen, dumping the sham of a breakfast down the drain and abandoning the dishes in the sink. I’d get to them later.
Kristoffer, my assista
nt and one of very few people who knew where I was, had sent a local listing of maid and meal prep services. I refused to have staff on this trip since part of what I’d wanted to escape was feeling like I couldn’t function without three different people holding my hand. That said, in one of our exchanges, the owner of this little place had mentioned a cleaning service and I planned to accept. We’d talk about that soon.
Since I already sat on the edge of total nauseating self-pity and regret, I pulled out my laptop and searched my name like an idiot. I should’ve done something productive—finally do some writing, get down some lyrics for the first time in far too long, maybe? Nah.
Headlines for everything from gossip sites to the BBC numbered the page.
“Miss Mayhem’s Final Failure.” Harsh, but all this did feel very much like a failure, and it’d be fantastic if it were the final one.
“Mayhem’s Name Says It All: The Deterioration of a Pop Icon’s Life.” Wow. Not pulling any punches. But nasty rumors piled on loss after loss? Two mediocre-at-best albums, a lackluster tour, some admittedly poor choices, and awful publicity to top it all? It was a deterioration. I couldn’t ignore that or pretend it away.
“Miss Mayhem Murders Meth-Addict Mother.”
I slammed the lid shut as my chest collapsed in on itself, my mind racing. She wasn’t a meth addict. And I sure as hell didn’t kill her. But I know who did.
After a lovely half-hour spiral into the guilt-ridden grief that even thinking about Candy’s death caused, I pulled myself together. I never cried—not since that first day they notified me she’d overdosed. The news dragged me down, buried me in the frozen ground, and kept me there. Usually. Today, miraculously, the prospect of meeting the owner had forced me out of that spiraling slosh of emotion.
The knock came right on time at nine. I’d worried I would want to sleep in, and since my body was still on Pacific Time and here in Utah they were an hour later, I’d played it safe. I should’ve known: I hadn’t slept past six in months, even when I had a day off, but I’d put a lot of hope into this escape. It wasn’t a surprise, nor did I expect this little mountain retreat to cure me of my sleep issues too.
