Page 7 of Sinful Sharing

“Mhm. I’ll think about it.”

“Come on, honey. It will be good for you. Time will fly so quickly you won’t even realize. Before you know it, you’ll be on a flight back home.”

It’s those last words that persuade me. My phone won’t be enough to keep me preoccupied until the resort reopens. I can handle feeding a few horses. No sweat. “Fine. I’ll help.”

“Thank you.”

We exchange a few more words before ending the call. I toss my phone onto the bed and lean back against the headboard. Three months. Ninety-one days. I can survive ninety-one days. I’ll work a little, stay out of Roman’s way, keep my head down, and then I’ll go home.

My phone beeps with a reminder I’d set when Jude had popped back in half an hour ago. It’s dinnertime. I rise from the bed, smoothing out the creases in my pants. Ninety-one days before I go back to having dinner without nervous flutters in my stomach.

I’m already counting them down.

4

Roman

“Another cancellation,” Jude announces, coming into the kitchen.

With a heavy sigh, he rests the iPad on the kitchen counter. I don’t bother looking at it. I don’t need the reminder that my life is on a constant downward spiral. Reaching for my mug, I take a sip of warm chamomile, wishing it were something stronger. However, alcohol always fucks with my head, and I still have work to do.

“It’s the third one this week,” he points out.

We still have another month before reopening. Plus, it’s winter. People will come. “I’m not worried.”

“You should be.” He pulls the iPad back to him. “If this continues, we won’t last another year.”

My fingers curl into the sides of the cup. I stare at the light-yellow liquid inside, once again wishing it were a shot of bourbon. “Like I said, it’s going to work out. All we need to do is keep the brat alive and well.”

Piece of cake, I think.

I hope. Taylor seems as if he’s going to be a handful. I’m not looking forward to teaching an entitled little snob to repair a fence or chop firewood.

“He’s not a brat,” Jude mutters.

“Have you met him?” I scoff, turning toward the sink, dumping the contents of the cup down the drain. Jude moves behind me, standing close enough for me to feel the heat coming from his body. I stare at the snow-battered windows. For some reason, the expression on Taylor’s face when he first arrived still bothers me.

“The kid is not his father.”

My lips curl. “He looks like him.” Same height and build, same blue eyes, the exact shade of ash-blond hair—although Lucas had never grown his out that long.

And I never had the urge to run my fingers through his hair.

“That’s not a crime.”

“It should be,” I counter.

Jude chuckles. I hate the sound. Hate how it warms my insides. I’d spent fifteen years nurturing the ice block around my heart, and the last thing I’d want is for it to melt.

His fingers brush my sides. He rests his chin on my shoulder. “You noticed anything about him during dinner?”

I frown. “Like what?”

“Mhm... I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something about him felt off. It was how he kept dodging my questions. Like he’s hiding something.”

What I noticed was far more disturbing.

I noticed the lean, wiry figure his thick coat had hidden. My gaze kept drifting to his full, pink lips and those deep blue eyes. I noticed how his throat moved each time he swallowed, and how soft his skin looked beneath the collar of his buttoned shirt.