Page 28 of Forsaken Trail (Runaway 4)

“Sure. How are you feeling?”

“Better.”

“Good.” I closed my eyes. Bad idea. The image of Brody’s naked body—muscled arms, washboard abs, impressive arousal—popped into my mind.

I groaned. Such. An. Idiot. This was his fault. Why did he have to have such an amazing body? Why was he so handsome? Why did he have to be such a good kisser?

That first kiss had been my downfall. His tongue had slid between my teeth and goodbye common sense.

My body ached, not just from the hangover, but from being used. Incredibly, sinfully used. Brody Carmichael knew how to give a woman an orgasm. With

his fingers. With his tongue. With his thick, long, talented—

I groaned again. Curse you, Brody. It would have been so much easier to keep hating him if he hadn’t been so . . . perfect.

“Are you getting sick?” Clara asked. “Oh, no. I hope you don’t have what I had.”

“I’m sure it’s just the hangover.” The sex hangover.

“Tell me about the wedding.”

“It was beautiful. Expensive. They spent more money on a party than I’ve made in three years. Or more.”

“Strange, aren’t they?” Clara asked. “Rich people.”

“Strange what they think is important.”

“Brody gets it,” she said. “Even though he has more money than is healthy, he gets it.”

Yesterday, I would have argued. Yesterday, I would have told her that when it came to her boss, she was delusional. But yesterday, I hadn’t known Brody.

Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on my part. Maybe that was me wanting to believe that I hadn’t let a rich jerk seduce me into a one-night stand.

I hated the idea that it all might have been a game. That he’d used me for sex. That I’d fallen for a trick.

“You aren’t arguing with me,” Clara said. “That means you really are hungover.”

I forced a smile. “Do my other foot. And stop talking so loud.”

She giggled and continued my massage.

We sat there, in comfortable companionship and quiet, until Gus woke up and, headache or not, I roused from the couch to spend time with my family.

We were outside on the front lawn when I heard a door close.

I looked down the driveway just in time to see Brody carry a duffel bag to his Jag.

He was wearing sunglasses. A suit, per usual. He looked striking and every bit a polished billionaire. The champagne didn’t seem to have paled his skin like it had mine.

Brody got into his car and drove away without a word. Without a glance.

And two weeks later, when I returned home to Oregon, I reminded myself that Brody Carmichael was an asshole. My pride had kept me from asking Clara where he’d gone. It had also kept me from telling her that I’d fucked her boss.

Brody was the enemy. He was a one-night mistake and a man I didn’t have to see again if I was lucky.

It didn’t matter that he’d left Arizona, escaping my company. It didn’t matter that I’d been just another willing body in his bedroom. It didn’t matter that I’d fallen for him, just a little.

That night didn’t matter.