“I know,” she said. “He’s a champion at debating just about anything. One time we spent forty-five minutes arguing the merits of fresh salsa versus that stuff they serve at the fast-food chains.”
“Surely there was no competition,” the cowboy said.
“Believe it or not, he thought that the fast-food salsa had its place on the salsa scale.”
“That boy always was ornerier than a mule,” the cowboy said.
“Only someone who knows Ethan well would say that,” she replied. “Who are you?”
“Hello, Pa,” Ethan said, joining them. Then he turned to Crissanne. “I told you my family could be a pain.”
“You did,” she admitted.
“Winston Caruthers,” the cowboy said, holding out his hand. “You can call me Pa—everyone does.”
Crissanne knew it was a casual offer, probably one he made a dozen times a day, but she’d never had a father figure. No man had ever offered for her to call him Pa. And it meant more than she knew it should.
“Thank you,” she said, taking his hand. “I’m Crissanne Moss.”
“Pleased to meet you, Crissanne,” Pa Caruthers said. “Ethan, you’ll have to bring your girl out to the house one night soon to meet your ma.”
“Pa, uh, we’re not a couple. She’s Mason’s—”
“Ex. I’m Mason’s ex and I’m here for a job, so Ethan is letting me stay with him for a few days. We were friends in college,” she said, taking control of the conversation. She had no idea what Ethan had been about to say, but Crissanne knew she wasn’t Mason’s anything anymore.
“Your ma would still like to meet her,” Pa Caruthers said in a firm tone.
Ethan’s jaw tightened. “Of course.”
“As I said, Pa,” Crissanne interjected, and it gave her a little thrill to say it, “I’m working here so I’m not sure what my schedule is, but we’ll try to get out there.”
Winston nodded and put his hat back on. “See you on Saturday, Ethan.”
“Yes, sir,” Ethan said. His father nodded at Crissanne and then moved on down the sidewalk.
“He still thinks I’m a teenager,” Ethan said.
“I think it’s sweet,” she said.
Ethan arched an eyebrow at her. “Sweet? He’s ornery as hell. Everyone says that.”
“Do they also say you’re just like him?” Crissanne asked, because he sounded just like his father had when he’d been talking about Ethan.
Ethan chuckled. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean they’re right.”
“Did you get some good pictures of the town?” he asked.
She flushed. She was pretty sure all she’d photographed was Ethan. “I did. Sort of scene shots with the street and the people on it.”
“Good.”
They continued walking in silence back toward Ethan’s Ferrari, which he’d parked at the far end of the historic district on the other side of the Grand Hotel. She thought about how nice this town was, how lovely Ethan’s family was and how she really had to be careful about her emotions. This was a stopgap. Cole’s Hill was meant to be a place for her to breathe and then figure out her next move.
She couldn’t fall for the town or the Carutherses. And she knew that was a distinct possibility. Ethan held her attention—Lord knew, he always had—but seeing him here and not in Los Angeles was bringing him into focus.
And she wished she could say that she was seeing all his scars and his faults, and that was a turnoff. But his scars made her understand him better. Which was dangerous. She could resist perfection. But she was going to have to really stay on her guard to keep the Ethan she knew at arm’s length.
* * *
Ethan had been in bed for two hours listening to the sound of the wind blowing and the scrape of the tree branches against his window. He really needed to take care of that. But he knew that wasn’t what was keeping him awake.
Crissanne was in his house. Sleeping just down the hall in the spare room. He had never slept with her under his roof before. It wouldn’t have mattered before, but now he knew it did.
He’d told himself over and over that she was just a friend.
She was still Mason’s girl until his best friend told him otherwise.
And of course that just sharpened the ache of desire inside him. His skin had felt too tight for his body all night, except for those few moments when she’d smiled at him, and then he’d forgotten she wasn’t his. She was here as a friend. And she was her own person.
She’d come to him for friendship, and he was going to deliver.
He rolled over and saw the empty expanse of the bed next to him. He closed his eyes and swore he smelled the scent of her perfume drifting through the open French doors that led to the balcony.
He got up and walked to the open door and saw the shadow of someone standing at the railing.
Crissanne.
He reached for his jeans and drew them on over his naked body. He carefully pushed his erection out of the way as he buttoned his jeans, and then scrubbed his hand through his hair as he stepped out.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, keeping his voice low so he didn’t startle her.
“No. Too much in my head,” she said, turning to face him. She wore a thin sleeveless nightgown that ended at her knee. The moon was full tonight and it shone down on her, making her look almost as if she wasn’t of this world. As if she didn’t belong here.
Hell.
He knew she didn’t.
“Did I wake you?” she asked, leaning back against the railing. The breeze stirred her hair, catching it and making it flow against her shoulder and then across her face. She tucked it back behind her ear.
“No.”
“I’m glad,” she said. “But what’s keeping you awake? Maybe talking will help.”
He doubted it was going to help either of them sleep if he told her he’d been consumed with images of her and that he couldn’t stop thinking about her mouth and wondering about her kiss. He rubbed his hand over his chest as his skin started to feel too hot. He needed her. He knew what lust felt like.
But this was Crissanne. Not a stranger, not someone he could simply hook up with and then smile at the next morning.
They had history.
And on his side...attraction.
So
