Page 50 of Sinful Sharing

Roman hides his smile behind a glass of lemonade. “I told you not to give him Daisy.”

Jude shrugs. “He shouldn’t have lied. Daisy hates liars.”

Roman finally lets out a chuckle. It’s quiet, brief, but genuine. I catch myself staring, thinking of how different he looks when he laughs. The permanent crease between his brows softens. His shoulders loosen. Based on his demeanor, one would not guess the disaster that happened this morning.

Two days ago, Mr. Wilson checked out earlier than expected. He’d smiled, complimented us, and promised he’d leave a glowing review. This morning, the bank notified Roman that he’d disputed the entire credit card charge, claiming he hadn’t approved the payment. The bank froze the funds immediately. Twelve hundred dollars—gone. At least for now. Silver Sage can’t afford that. I’ve seen enough bookkeeping on Roman’s computer to understand. Every canceled reservation, unexpected expense, and dishonest guest hurts the ranch.

A change creeps over Roman. He’s eating, but his jaw has gone rigid. A faraway look has crept into his eyes. He’s doing the math again.

Soon, Jude notices it, too. “You keep thinking about that asshole Wilson.”

“I’m thinking about payroll.”

Jude sighs. “It’s going to work out.”

“I know that.” Roman throws a glance at me. An unreadable expression crosses his face. “All we need is time.”

I stab at the food with my fork, my appetite quickly fading. I hate feeling helpless. Even more, I hate watching him carry the entire business on his shoulders while pretending everything is fine. He’d given me a place to stay, a chance to breathe. He didn’t have to take me in. The least I can do is help him keep this place alive.

A thought forms, then grows. I’d spent two years working for Radiance and earned enough marketing experience to make a difference right here. Silver Sage doesn’t have a visibility problem because it isn’t special; it’s because most people aren’t aware that it exists. I could change that.

The place sells itself, anyway. I could hire a photographer to capture the scenic view, those hiking trails, and all the unique little perks it offers. People would eat it up online. I could redesign the website and maybe even convince local tourism pages to feature it—

“What’s so funny?” Jude asks, yanking me from my thoughts.

“Huh?”

“You’re sitting there with a pleased grin on your face,” he replies. “Care to share the joke?”

“The joke is your cooking,” Roman grumbles. Light-hearted bickering follows, and I tune it out by going back to my plan. Money from Mom could help. If I asked, she’d probably wire enough to erase the ranch’s debt without missing a beat. I’d make it anonymous. That way, Roman can’t return it.

“I have a cast-iron stomach, which is the only reason your cooking hasn’t made me croak yet.” Amusement fills Roman’s voice. A gleam makes his eyes sparkle. He’s trying to piss off Jude, and based on the annoyance on Jude’s face, it’s working.

“Asshole.”

Roman smirks and reaches for the bread basket. Jude pulls it away. “I think your stomach won’t be able to handle these.”

“It probably wouldn’t if you’d made them.” Roman’s smirk deepens. The satisfaction on his face makes his features look more youthful. More approachable. I like this side of him. I want to do my best to evoke this pleasantness more often.

I’m going to do it.

Tomorrow I’ll start putting everything together, whether or not he wants my help. He took me in when he didn’t have to. Now it’s my turn to return the favor.

My cell phone vibrates on the table, the sharp buzzing cutting into Roman and Jude’s petty argument. I pull the device toward me. Mom. She’d sent her customary text message this morning. It’s not like her to contact me twice in one day.

I rise from the table. “Sorry, I need to take this.”

Roman nods once. Jude stares at me with slight concern. He probably sees the puzzled look on my face. I step into the hallway before answering the phone. “Mom?”

“Taylor... oh my God.”

Her rapid breathing makes every muscle in my body go rigid. Something is wrong.

Terribly wrong.

But before I can open my mouth to ask, she screams frantically, “What the hell have you done?”

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