“Don’t worry. Ain’t your fault where you’re from.” Another smile. It softened his words.
She couldn’t help but smile in return. “Yeah, right. What about you? Did you grow up around here?”
“Yep. Born and bred.”
“Nice place. Blackwood, I mean.”
“Has its moments, I guess. So, what brings you here, princess?”
“I don’t really want to talk about it, okay?”
“Sure. Got it.”
“And don’t…call me a princess.”
“’Course not. Didn’t mean a thing by it.” Ivan’s voice was gentle, and Uma had a realization. Despite the warrior image his size conjured, she suddenly saw him as he probably was: a big, shy man with confusing eyes, an unruly beard, and a ridiculously named leg warmer of a dog.
“I don’t really like to talk about myself.”
“Okay,” he said, nearly smiling again. “So, what do you want to talk about?”
She huffed out a tiny laugh. “Hell if I know.”
“Big conversationalist, huh?”
She shrugged and sipped at her drink, arms crossed protectively in front of her chest.
“Yeah, me too,” he said. “So, you want to start over again?”
She nodded, but still they sank back into silence. Ivan bent down and nudged at Squeak until she turned and gave him her belly. He tickled her, big fingers softly mussing her fur.
It occurred to Uma that she didn’t have a story ready. She’d never imagined herself having to explain why she’d come to Blackwood. She’d always assumed that she wouldn’t meet anyone, wouldn’t make friends.
With Joey, her friends had been picked off, one by one, deemed unfit for their company. By the end, she’d been entirely cut off from nearly everyone. He’d isolated her, left her with no one to turn to but him. His tactics seemed obvious in hindsight, but at the time…
“I’m sorry I was so short. I just… I recently got out of a really…a relationship.” There, she’d told him. Sort of.
“Nothin’ to be sorry about.”
“So, you have a big family around here?” she asked, the only thing she could think of to say.
“Jessie, who you know. And her son, Gabe.”
“Right.”
“That’s it. You got family?”
“My mom’s in India. She lives on an ashram, does yoga and stuff.”
“Oh. Interesting. That it?”
“Pretty much. My, uh…my dad died when I was in high school.” Why was she telling him all this?
“Hmm.”
“You got parents?”
“Not really. Never knew my dad. And Mom…she’s gone too. Long time ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugged, then seemed to hesitate for a moment before leaning forward to say quietly, “Look, you need someone to talk to him for you?” His body tensed, oozing menace, and she wondered what kind of a talking-to he meant.
Uma shivered, a not unpleasant sensation. “Who?”
“Asshole you’re runnin’ from. One’s got you shittin’ your pants anytime a guy gets within spittin’ distance of you.”
“No,” she responded, although a small, craven part of her imagined him pummeling Joey’s face into the ground. His thick knuckles looked like they’d crunched their fair share of cartilage and bone. At the gym, she’d seen the potential damage he could do with that body. She had the feeling that if she said the word, he’d do it.
But no. Poor guy was probably some peaceful animal lover, minding his own business, and here she was, yet again, fantasizing him into the role of gladiator. “I don’t need help. I’m fine.” A statement so blatantly untrue, she could hardly expect him to believe it. “Besides, I’m learning self-defense.”
“That’s right. Good.” He nodded with a smile. “I could teach you more, if you want.”
“Oh, sure. Yeah. Thanks.” Uma pictured the two of them going over those same moves, but someplace private, like right here in his overcrowded forge. She couldn’t quite manage it, though, because every time she imagined their bodies coming together, it was on the bed, and the choreography much more illicit.
She snuck another look at him, his plaid shirt opened over a dark-colored T-shirt. His jeans looked filthy, but she figured that came with the territory. Blacksmithing didn’t seem like a neat occupation. The denim curved around his thighs like a glove, tighter than most guys around here seemed to wear. She wondered if he had a hard time finding pants that fit him. Slim waist paired with thick legs. Tall enough to make you do a double take. She’d be safe with a man like that standing guard. The memory of being carried by him, face pressed to his chest, was so visceral, so real, she could almost feel it still.
“Thanks for letting me warm up, Ivan.” She’d let the warm fire, booze, and the sight of those hypnotic hands caressing the peacefully snoring dog all work together to lull her into a false sense of safety, of belonging. It was time to go before she started believing it.
When she handed him her empty mug, their fingers touched briefly, and something flared, so ephemeral that she wanted to reach out and touch him again, just to see.
“So, you want to go out sometime?” His words stopped the glow, made it real and not something she’d imagined.
Go out? No. No, Uma couldn’t go out with him, even though he didn’t scare her anymore. She couldn’t get embroiled with another man.
No rebounds for Uma. Not here, not anywhere. She couldn’t rebound after a relationship like the one she’d just left. She couldn’t anything after her relationship with Joey. It had been the relationship to end all relationships.
This body might never succumb to a man’s touch again, and that would be fine.
Except that last thought felt a little like a lie. Some small part of her might be the tiniest bit curious about doing things with Ivan, might even welcome it if she were a different girl in a different life. Images of pure, wonderfully disgusting animal sex came to mind until she pushed them firmly away. No, certainly not that.
Wining and dining and first dates and stuff? Oh God. Even worse. She didn’t even know what that looked like anymore. The thought alone was enough to make her sweat. Dates meant intimacy and relationships and the possibility of love. None of which she could fathom.
So, no. Uma couldn’t go out with Ivan.
Above all, she had a feeling that this was a nice guy she was dealing with. And she was decidedly not a nice girl. She’d lost the chance at being just another nice girl the day Joey Chisholm had flashed his baby blues at her and wended his way so firmly under her skin that she feared she would never get him out.
“You don’t want to go out with me, Ivan.”
He looked ready to argue for a moment and then nodded, slow, like everything else about him. He didn’t look defeated, just calm, maybe a tiny bit determined. Uma wondered if he was a stubborn sort of person. She thought he might be.
For some reason, she didn’t mind the idea that he might try again. As a matter of fact, a contrary, selfish little piece of her hoped he would, in case she decided to change her mind.
“Where you goin’ to stay tonight?”
“I’ll figure something out.”
“Got a bed right here.”
Her body clenched unexpectedly at the idea. She couldn’t tell if it was a good clench or a bad one. “Oh, no, I couldn’t.”
“Don’t mind.”
Uma waited to feel frightened at the idea of sleeping in this man’s bed. Nothing.
Actually, that wasn’t entirely true. She trembled. An image of their bodies entwined on the bed rose from her thoughts, so close she could reach out and touch it.
“Not lettin’ you sleep in that car.”
“I can’t take your bed from you.”
“We got another option,” he said, voice
smoky and full of promise.
* * *
Shit. He hadn’t meant to say that. Frankly, he hadn’t meant to do any of it. The flirting, the teasing, the easy conversation. It had all come as one enormous surprise to Ive. Like one second he was saving a damsel in distress, and the next he wanted to rip her clothes off. With his teeth.
Ah, hell. He really shouldn’t have invited her back here. He should have given her money, made her get a hotel room. Anything but this…this…temptation. Because this woman was clearly not in any place to be ravaged.
But, instead of responding the way she should have, the way she was supposed to, all shocked and offended—a new voice, warmer and darker, said, “Yeah?”
To which he couldn’t help but respond, “Could share.”
The silence lasted a moment too long, landing them for the first time in awkward territory. The fire popped, pulling them out of it, and Squeak let out a massive, satisfied doggy sigh before flopping her head back onto the floor.
Uma started to shake her head and then stopped. Ive was amazed at how much he could read in her eyes. Even though he’d never been overly perceptive when it came to women, this one was an open book. Not good. She needed more protection against…well, against guys like him.
“I’m kiddin’, Uma. Place is all yours, princess.” He said that last bit to annoy her. To protect her from him. He threw in a wink to seal the deal.
Was that disappointment he saw or—no. Just wishful thinking on his part.
“Where will you sleep?” she asked, and he liked that she worried about him.
“Don’t you worry about me. I got plenty of options.” He smirked, lacing the words with innuendo. “Bed’s all yours.”
“What? Oh, no, I couldn’t—”
“I insist. Stay. Please. Else we’ll have to get you a hotel room.” He went to the fire, loaded it up with logs, and headed to the door, Squeak slow to follow—the traitor.
“Thanks, Ivan,” she whispered, and he was glad.
“Anytime, princess.” He smiled at her annoyed little breath.
Before heading out, he paused. “You want breakfast in the mornin’? Girls are still layin’, so I got fresh eggs.”
“Oh, no. No, I’ve got to get back to Ms. Lloyd’s place.”
“Lock this door, okay?” He waited until she nodded, then turned before adding, “Sweet dreams.”
“Thanks, Ivan. You too.”
He pulled the door closed behind him and waited. A few beats later, the lock thunked, followed by the sound of a chair sliding up behind it. Good on her. Looking out for herself.
Ive walked to his big house, went inside, and brushed his teeth, peed, then turned to look at the stairs heading up to the second floor. He kept the place just above freezing, so the pipes wouldn’t burst, but it was barely warmer than outside. Why bother heating an empty house?
No beds, no blankets. Only the one threadbare towel and about five slivers of soap smashed together on the side of the bathtub.
He considered taking his towel into the kitchen, firing up the stove, and trying to make the place his own. But it was no use. He’d tried before. He’d even brought his entire bed in here once, in a bid to make it a real home.
At this point, he should probably just sell the house. This place wasn’t him. It was too good for him. Too nice.
But he needed to finish fixing it up. The banister and then the porch. That windowsill upstairs looked like it might be rotting out a bit and—yeah. There was a ton to do still. He’d move in once he finished. Or sell it.
On that thought, he pulled the front door shut behind him and went to his truck, where he and Squeak would spend the night snuggled under a sleeping bag. He didn’t usually mind being out in the great outdoors, even in weather like this. Only tonight, for the first time in forever, there was a woman in his bed, and the thought of her wrapped up in his sheets would be enough to keep him from getting any sleep at all.
Available now!
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my amazing family of beta readers: Radha, Poorna, and Lakshmi Metro, you rock! (I want to see that book, La.) A huge thanks to Callie Russell, whose feedback is always perfectly on point, and to Christine Murray and Corey Jo Lloyd for being my guinea pigs. This would have been a lot harder without my wonderful team of romance buds: Amanda Bouchet, Joanna Bourne, Alleyne Dickens, Chan Cox Elder, Madeline Iva, Wendy La Capra, Kasey Lane, Elizabeth Safleur, and Heather Van Fleet. A huge thank-you to Christine Vrooman of Ankida Ridge Vineyards, who shared her immense knowledge of winemaking with me. Your words are wise and your wine heavenly. All errors are my own.
I owe so much to my editor, Mary Altman, who, along with Laura Costello, helped mold this book into what it is today, along with the rest of the amazing team at Sourcebooks. To Laura Bradford, thank you for being the most efficient, badass agent a woman could want. Finally, thank you to my husband for making this a priority, to my parents for watching the kids when deadlines loomed, and to my babies for spending too many weekends without your mama.
About the Author
Adriana Anders has acted and sung, slung cocktails and corrected copy. She’s worked for start-ups, multinationals, and small nonprofits, but it wasn’t until she returned to her first love—writing romance—that she finally felt like she’d come home. Today, she resides with her tall, French husband, two small children, and a fat, French cat in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, where she writes the dark, emotional love stories of her heart.
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