Page 2 of Sinful Sharing

Jude chuckles, his hand falling at his side. “You’re funny.”

“I’m not trying to be funny.”

He clicks his tongue, giving me another detailed once-over. “Oh... this is going to be more interesting than I thought.” He says it more to himself, but then he directs a smirk toward me. “It means you won’t have anyone waiting on you hand and foot. Welcome to the real world.”

And just like Roman, he doesn’t wait for my response. But at least he takes my two largest bags. Grabbing the remaining luggage, I follow him inside the house, where warmth wraps a soothing cloak around me. We enter a large living room with a brick fireplace dominating one wall, its mantel displaying an old clock and two iron candleholders. A leather sofa sits in front of it, the dark-brown color a little faded. On either side are two massive armchairs. A wooden coffee table with dents and scratches, a thick beige rug, and a few nondescript paintings complete the appearance. Simple. Generic. Looking around, it’s difficult to tell who lives here.

“Upstairs,” Jude says, pulling my attention away from a door on the other side of the room.

He leads me up a short flight of wooden stairs to the first door in the hallway. Like downstairs, it’s ordinary. A double bed sits against weathered walls, covered with a thick patchwork quilt. A wooden dresser stands opposite the bed, its surface mostly bare except for a small lamp. In one corner, a worn leather armchair rests beside a narrow bookshelf filled with old magazines.

At least it’s clean, I guess.

Jude rests my suitcases in a corner of the room. I expect him to leave, but he stands there, hands on his hips, eyes fixed on me.

Unnerving me.

“What?” I finally blurt.

“Why would someone like you move to an old ranch resort?” he asks.

“Someone like me?”

“Yeah.” He jerks his chin in my direction. “All preppy and shit. I get the vibe that you don’t like getting your hands dirty.”

I also don’t like letting my mother down. Coming here was the last thing I wanted to do, but it was the safest choice—for her and me. It’s not something I’d want to discuss with someone I just met, though. “None of your business.”

Jude nods slowly, as if he’s processing my response. “Well, good luck to you.”

Is it a coincidence that I’ve heard the same words twice within half an hour? Either way, I don’t need luck. I turn my gaze toward the blank canvas outside the window. What I need is a time machine. That way, I can clean up the mess that forced me to move here.

“Oh, and fresh sheets are in the closet.” Jude doubles back, pointing to a small wooden door across the room. “Toiletries, bathroom.” Again, he points, and I shift my attention to an open doorway. “Although I’m not sure they’re fancy enough for you, pretty boy.”

“Please don’t call me that.” Especially when he’s the pretty one—or, I’d rather say, handsome, really. His features should be intimidating—the firm jaw, defined cheekbones, and dark, unruly brows are enough to make anyone feel inadequate. But for some reason, I don’t. Maybe it’s those warm brown eyes. They soften every hard edge until looking away becomes the hardest thing I’ve done all day.

But then I catch myself. I remember the reason I left San Francisco. The same reason I deactivated my Grindr account and put all my secret hookups on a permanent block list. I shouldn’t admire another man like this.

Jude walks up to me. I flinch as he reaches toward my face, sweeping my hair away, his gaze boring into me. “Mhm… I don’t think I’ll stop. It suits you.”

He gently pats my cheek, a hint of a smile on his lips as he turns around. The door closes behind him. I let out a pent-up breath and drop my ass onto the bed.

Half an hour. I’ve only been here for half an hour, but it’s long enough for the truth to sink in.

I didn’t leave my problems back home.

They followed me here.

2

Roman

The cast-iron skillet hisses as I stir onions and garlic through melted butter. Lamb chops brown in the pan beside it, potatoes boil in a small pot, and a loaf of bread warms in the toaster oven. It’s a simple meal, the kind I’ve cooked so many times I don’t have to think about it.

Which is a good thing, since my brain refuses to focus on what I’m doing. I keep seeing those expensive clothes, that designer shoulder bag, and the wrinkle of disgust on Taylor’s face when he looked around the property.

As if the place smelled terrible.

As if he couldn’t wait to leave.