Hated by the Grump (Burly Mountain

Men Book 3) Erin Havoc

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HATED BY THE GRUMP
BURLY MOUNTAIN MEN
BOOK THREE

ERIN HAVOC
Copyright © 2024 by Erin Havoc
All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual
events, locals, or person, living or dead, is coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written
permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
All characters are adults.
Cover by Cormar Covers
 CONTE NTS

Content Warning
1. AMELIA
2. RHYS
3. AMELIA
4. RHYS
5. AMELIA
6. AMELIA
7. RHYS
8. AMELIA
9. RHYS
10. AMELIA
11. RHYS
12. AMELIA
13. RHYS
14. AMELIA
15. RHYS
16. AMELIA
17. RHYS
18. AMELIA
19. AMELIA
20. RHYS
21. RHYS
22. RHYS
23. AMELIA
24. AMELIA
25. AMELIA
26. AMELIA
27. AMELIA
28. AMELIA
29. RHYS
Epilogue
Epilogue
About the Author
 CONTE NT WARNING

Mention of domestic abuse;

Mention of family negligence;
Mention of murder;
Deceive;
Violence;
Kidnapping (soft);
Stalking;
Age gap (thirteen years);
Unprotected sex.

Mental health is health.

 A M E LI A

H ave you ever revisited a place from your childhood and realized that it wasn't as big or impressive as you
remembered it?
This house right here? Not the case at all.
I step out of my car and gawk at the building. Dad was never known for being frugal, but this is ridiculous even for him.
Dad’s mountain cabin is actually a two-level metal-and-glass mansion. Enormous windows, sharp angles, and an elegant
deck. The house gleams with the watery light of the morning sun.
I should have studied to become a real estate agent. This is the kind of house I expected a celebrity to own.
Have I mentioned there’s a lake? It’s almost private, since we share it with the house sitting right across the mirrored
surface. Aspens circle the properties, creating a natural wall, even if the closest neighbors are miles from here.
It’s stunning, of course. It’s also been sitting unused for over ten years. Dad could have sold the house and used the money
for something good, but... that’s not something my father does, no matter how much I ask him.
Shaking my head, I slam the car door and stretch my arms over my head. My spine pops. The drive here was long, but it’s
going to be worth it.
One whole month by myself. For the first time since high school.
My lips curl with a grin. I grab my purse and my suitcase from the inside of the car and make a beeline for the front door. I
can’t wait to spend the next month wearing sweatpants.
As I step over the threshold, the scent of pine and cleaning products greets me, the house swallowing my presence with an
echo that speaks to its emptiness. The one person who comes up here is a maid, once per month, and the scent she left behind is
still fresh. I don’t get why my father would need to keep the house clean, but it’s not the strangest thing he does.
I let the door close as I look up. This place is as huge as I remember, with cold marble floors and slick black furniture. The
ceiling is so tall in this part of the house that we could bring an aspen inside. It's not very child-friendly, with the stairs and all
the sharp edges, but I used to love coming here.
Memories rush in—scenes of a younger me chasing laughter down these very halls. Back then, my mother’s voice was
always a warm presence. Even if Dad wasn’t present, he was nothing like the man I know now.
I wander through the foyer, my fingertips grazing the cold banister. The walls are lined with Dad’s portraits—meeting
important politicians, celebrities, and business partners. I pause before a large one, the only one from our family. I trace the
glass over our faces, lingering on our mismatched eyes.
My DNA was so unfair to me—I’m the only one with brown eyes in the family.
And then there’s that space next to the pictures. Since I was a kid, Dad used to say that’s where he’d put my diploma one
day.
Law school. The diploma sits heavily back home, a reminder of expectations I never set for myself. It’s my father’s dream
for me, not mine. He insisted—no, demanded—I pursue it. And, like the dutiful daughter he raised me to be, I complied.
I have been complying for so long... I need some time away from that.
I shake off the memories and ascend the staircase, each step echoing the heels of my boots. The house may be impressive,
but it feels cold after so long sitting empty.
Reaching my old room, I study the old bed and the white comforter. Mm, maybe the narrow twin bed won’t be as
comfortable now that I’m an adult. I guess I’ll take my parents’ bedroom.
The place is, as expected, the way I remembered. A huge four-poster bed with the softest silk sheets, long flowing curtains,
and a fluffy rug. My mom decorated this room, and it’s still the prettiest part of the house.
I spot the full-length mirror propped against a wall, its surface pristine. Dragging my feet closer, I catch sight of myself.
The reflection shows a tired, twenty-three-year-old curvy woman. My light brown eyes are heavy from years of putting on
shows for others’ sakes. My dark auburn hair could use a trim. It used to be almost brown when I was a kid, like Mom’s.
I dig into my pocket for my phone and force myself to focus on it. This house brings me more memories than I expected.
To my surprise, Dad has been paying the Wi-Fi bill. It’s the same password from his place, so I connect my phone and
bring out the smart speakers I brought along. One in the living room, the other in my chosen bedroom—the master suite.
With Taylor Swift singing, it’s easy to send the ghosts away.
Dropping on the mattress, I mouth the lyrics as I kick off my boots. Next, I pull the knitted sweater over my head and let it
drop next to me.
The first order of business is to get into the most comfortable clothes possible. I already spend too many hours in button-
down shirts and uncomfortable pencil skirts.
Thirty days of sweatpants and flowy, cute dresses? Yes, please.
I go through my things, picking up a pair of flannel shirt and pants, then hang all the other clothes in the closet. I shove the
sweater and dress pants to the very bottom of my suitcase and pull the flannel set on.
The hem of the shirt hooks to the collar on my nape and I reach up to pull the shirt down. My eyes catch the pale,
crisscrossing scars down my back in the mirror. I snap my gaze away.
Talk about ghosts of the past. Each one of these is a shadow of my father’s anger—a physical reminder that despite his
wealth—or because of it—he wields control with an iron fist behind closed doors.
At least he never hit my mother. Or so I believe.
I swallow hard, pushing past the tightness in my throat as I pivot on my heel and head downstairs toward the kitchen. My
bare feet pad against the cold marble, a shiver trailing up my spine.
This house needs some warmth. I have to find the thermostat.
The kitchen looms before me, all sleek lines and stainless steel. It’s a chef’s dream, with a six-burner stove and an island
almost as big as my bed back home. But to me, it’s just another room that echoes too loudly with the past.
Mom liked to bake. We always had cake when we came here. Every day. Dad used to complain that Mom shouldn’t be
wasting her time baking when we had maids, but she loved it.
I pull open the fridge—empty, save for the fancy water my father enjoys. One bottle probably costs more than my soul. It
tastes all the same to me.
“Grocery shopping it is,” I tell the inside of the fridge. “Tomorrow. First thing.”
Luckily, I brought some stuff for the first evening. There’s no way I could change back into street clothes this soon.
With a deep breath, I walk over to the window that overlooks the lake—a serene expanse of water that glitters under the
sun. Like a blanket of diamonds.
Spring is upon us, and winter wasn’t even that bad. We’re due for the last snowfall of the season, but other than that, this
month holds promise. I have zero responsibilities for a change, a comfortable house, and beautiful nature all around.
I let out a soft laugh. “Who needs people when you’ve got all this?”
My eyes wander across the lake to the other house—the only neighbor in sight. There’s a car parked out front. A black,
sleek, bulky truck.
One reason I know I’m not made for law: my instincts always kick in before logic. When I see the car, I think of the
neighbor. He was my father’s age back then, so he must be in his sixties now. He was sweet and had all the patience in the
world with children.
Should I go tell him I’m here? That he can call for help if he needs anything? I should check on him, right? Maybe offer to
pick up groceries since I’m going into Aspen Glen tomorrow.
But he’s not that old. It’s not like he needs a nanny. He might not even remember me. He might feel insulted that I even
offered.
I narrow my eyes at the car for a moment before shaking my head with resolve. “Nope. Not gonna think about anyone else
but me for thirty glorious days.”
It’s selfish, but sometimes we need selfishness. Sometimes selfishness helps us survive.
With renewed determination, I turn away from the window and amble into the bathroom to unpack my self-care arsenal:
bubble bath, face masks, and an assortment of candles with book-inspired names. This month is all about doing things I love
and things I’ve always wanted to do. Stargaze, finish a couple of books, rewatch my childhood favorite movies, use nice bath
bombs...
Maybe even pop my cherry.
Soon, Dad will drown me in work and I won’t have time for myself. I have to take this month off to have some fun.
Later, steam fills the massive master bathroom, clouding the windows. I drop a purple and pink bath bomb into the tub, then
light up the Pemberley candle—amber, bergamot, and rose.
And of course, I bring my waterproof e-reader and my boyfriend—the battery-operated one. The only kind I’ve ever had.
Finally, some quality time with the only men who never disappoint—the fictional ones. Because, let’s face it, a boyfriend
who stalks you might be a green flag in books, but in real life?
No way. In real life, we all want a dependable guy our age with no baggage. There’s already too much drama in our
routines.
Stalkers only make me swoon in fiction. So, I click my e-reader on and let myself get lost in a romance book.
 RHYS

A searing glare from the afternoon sun reflects off the lake’s placid surface, but the light won’t last for long. The last
snowfall of the season approaches Aspen Glen in dark clouds, but I’m staring somewhere else.
I press my forehead against the window pane; its frosty bite is a warning of the upcoming snowstorm. With a breath
lodged in my throat, I draw the binoculars to my eyes.
Fuck. She wasn’t supposed to be here.
Edgar Frost comes up to his outrageous mountain mansion once every couple of months, always near the end of the month. I
moved to this house a week ago, just in time to see him come and go. He won’t be back for two months.
The house was supposed to be empty. Why is there a woman inside?
Her identity was a mystery at first, when I saw her parking up front. She drives a Honda Civic that’s seen better days, and
her dressing style is miles away from Frost’s well-tailored suits and expensive watches. For a second, I thought she was a new
maid.
No maid would enter the house with a suitcase. She had to be someone important, and Frost has only one woman in his life
—his daughter, Amelia Frost. I’ve seen her name mentioned a few times in my research.
How the fuck did a man like Edgar Frost have a child like her?
They’re nothing alike. She’s all curves—from her dark auburn hair cascading in unruly waves, big round eyes, and an ass
that would make any man drool. A stark contrast to the image of Edgar Frost, tall, lean, and full of edges.
She might look nothing like her father, but it doesn’t change who she is. The blood running in their veins is the same black
color.
“Frost’s little pawn,” I mutter, my breath fogging the glass.
She might not look like him, but monsters breed monsters, and there’s no way she’s any different from Frost. She still
carries his name, and she certainly relishes his money.
Snowflakes drift across my view. I narrow my eyes, struggling to see through them.
I shift my weight and the floorboard creaks beneath my boot, breaking the silence. The house is still as a tomb, and I can’t
deny the guilt of invading this woman’s privacy. I must look like a fiend watching her like this. I force the guilt away. Amelia is
part of her father’s stratagems; youth and beauty do not absolve her from the sins of her bloodline.
She might be beautiful, waltzing around the kitchen barefoot, but it changes nothing. It doesn’t move me from my goal.
“Like father, like daughter,” I whisper, my voice hushed. “You’re not fooling anyone.”
But even as I try to convince myself of her inherent corruption, there’s a nagging thought, a whisper softer than the falling
snow outside: what if she’s the exception?
“No,” I bark at myself, shaking my head to dispel the ridiculous notion. Her father is a monster, so she must be tainted. It’s
the only truth that fits into the puzzle I’ve been piecing together.
Amelia moves with an ease that’s as enchanting as it’s infuriating. She seems to float from cabinet to countertop, her plump
lips moving to a silent song. It’s like watching a fairy-tale princess through frosted glass, and for a moment, I’m caught in her
spell.
Something tugs inside me. I smother the feeling.
“Focus,” I command myself, biting down on the word. “She’s just a woman. A pawn to your enemy.”
She sways from side to side, one hand stirring a pot while the other slices through the air, conducting an invisible
orchestra. The way the soft light catches in her auburn hair almost makes me forget who she is.
As she tosses her head back, belting out to herself, I feel something twist inside me. It’s not desire—not entirely. It’s a
hunger mixed with an aching pull towards her light.
It’s dangerous.
I set the binoculars down with a jerk. No. She’s the enemy’s daughter, and she's too young for me. I can admire her beauty
and her curves, but that’s all. I will allow nothing else to happen.
Pacing up and down the living room, I go over my plans once more. I have to adapt. Amelia was not part of it, but she
could be…
Amelia is a means to an end. I can use this duality to my advantage. If I play this right, Amelia could be my Trojan horse,
unwittingly aiding me in bringing her father down.
I halt, the idea blooming. A plan unfolds in my mind like a nightshade blossoming in the dusk.
I can approach her tomorrow under the guise of a neighborly introduction. A smile here, a compliment there—nothing
overt, just enough to plant the seeds of trust. And then I will weave myself into the fabric of her world until I find what I need.
And she will never see my vengeance coming.
 A M E LI A

M y boots crunch yesterday’s snow as I approach the grocery store. It snowed just enough to create a soft blanket on
the city, a lovely goodbye from the season.
I find it stunning, but I’m only staying for a month. The people who have spent the entire winter in here are
definitely done with so much snow. It is still early in the day and most of the houses have already cleaned their front yards.
I push open the door to the grocery store, the warm air rushing over my chilly face. The place is the perfect image of small-
town charm. A bell chimes overhead, marking my entrance, and I pull off my gloves and shove them inside a cart.
As I meander through the aisles, I catch my reflection in a mirror perched above the organic produce. My reflection looks
well-rested today. I run my fingers through rust-colored hair before ambling down the aisle.
An elderly man thumbs through a selection of apples. I pause next to him to grab some.
“Good morning,” I say with a smile.
He glances at me quizzically before murmuring a “good morning” back. Small-town nerves, I guess.
It doesn’t stop me from wishing a good day to other people. Sometimes, a smile from a stranger might light up someone’s
day.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I slip it out to check for messages. There’s one from the local legal aid office back
home thanking me for my work in the last case. It’s not much, but it feels like I’m using my law degree for something good—
untouched by my father’s influence or expectations.
Truly giving back.
I turn into the breakfast aisle, my gaze going over the shelves, searching for my favorite winter treat. Candy-cane-flavored
cocoa powder.
They make the best hot cocoa, and my dream vacation needs copious amounts of it.
The last canister of candy-cane-flavored chocolate powder sits on the top shelf. It’s the same brand my mom bought when I
was a kid. It’s part of my holiday memories. On tiptoes, I reach up.
Just as another hand mirrors my motion.
Our fingers brush against each other. Electricity snaps at me. We recoil as if burned. My gaze travels up along the length of
a leather-clad arm to meet eyes that could outdo midnight in both depth and darkness.
The man attached to the hand is tall, broad-shouldered, and dark-haired. There’s an edge to him; it clings like frost on
windowpanes, like shadow on the sharp angle of his jaw.
All the air whooshes out of me. He’s more impressive than beautiful. His dark eyes pin me to the spot as if I were a curious
butterfly.
We stare a moment longer than necessary. I clear my throat.
“You should take it,” I say, motioning for the canister.
His dark eyebrows lift in surprise, his eyes searching my face. I don’t know what for. Is he wondering if it’s a trick?
“I insist,” I add. “I’ve already got more than enough back home.”
That’s a lie. I have none, but this stranger doesn’t need to know that.
He stares for another second, his eyes narrowed, then shakes his head. “No, you take it.” He pushes it back toward me, his
deep voice raspy like tires on gravel.
A voice should never sound this good. It slithers down my spine like an icy finger.
I lick my dry lips. “Please, I’d feel bad depriving you of your candy cane cocoa.”
“Who says I even wanted it? Maybe I didn’t know what it was,” he replies, arching an eyebrow, his gaze running like
caramel down my body.
My heart skips a beat. Is this guy checking me out?
No. No way. Guys don’t check me out—much fewer guys like him. Tall, dark, and brooding, all hard muscles and clenched
jaw.
He’s definitely judging my outfit choice, though. I’m wearing the perfect opposite of my day-to-day office clothes. Flannel
pants and an oversized beige hoodie, thick socks, and my Harry Styles t-shirt underneath it all. I hate to be the neighbor who
goes to the grocery store in her pajama pants, but here we are.
I force a smile onto my face. “Oh, come on. I saw that longing look. You want the cocoa.”
“I think you’re projecting, Red.”
His gaze lingers for a second too long, again.
Heat rises to my cheeks at the nickname. “You were totally eyeing that cocoa like it was the last one on earth,” I say,
injecting my voice with humor, so he knows I’m just joking.
He crosses his arms, looking down at me. Huge biceps strain against his jacket. This guy is tall. “Maybe I was just
reaching for the oatmeal.”
I scoff. “Yeah, right. As if someone would have oatmeal for breakfast out of their own volition.”
His lips twitch. “Oh, so you’re one of those people.”
I blink twice, staring at him. “What people?”
“People who hate fiber.”
“I don’t hate it; I just—who eats oatmeal for breakfast? It’s sad.”
“Being healthy is not sad.”
What am I doing? Am I really arguing with a stranger in the middle of the grocery store? About oatmeal?
I think he notices it at the same time. He pulls back, his spine straightening. I hadn’t noticed how close he was.
He nudges the cocoa toward me again. “It’s yours.”
I shake my head. “Keep it. You clearly need it if your breakfast is oatmeal.”
He wraps his fingers around the can with that little twitch in the corner of his lip. It makes me want to see him smile. Like a
full-blown smile.
Instead of leaving, he stares at me again. His lips part as if he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t. My heart races.
“Do I know you from somewhere?” I burst. Is that why he’s staring at me? Because we know each other and he’s waiting
for me to remember?
He shakes his head. “Don’t think so.”
So, I wait for him to introduce himself. He takes a step back and around me, then nods in goodbye as he distances himself.
“Enjoy your cocoa, Red.” He winks and saunters off, his leather jacket squeaking.
Cocoa?
When I look down at my cart, the can of candy-cane-flavored cocoa is lodged between the tuna can and the tube of mayo.
My heart jumps.
I gasp, snapping my eyes up, searching for him. He has already disappeared around the corner.
I could give chase, but I don’t want to. This was so nice. My lips curl into a smile and I can’t deny the flurry of butterflies
inside me.
I don’t want to ruin the memory.
Grabbing the railing of the cart, I stride off, back to the produce area. I pretend to shop for more apples as I tell my heart to
stop galloping. It takes me forever to focus on the shopping list again.
It would be a lie to say I don’t think about the stranger again. Even hours later, as I sip hot cocoa, the image of him looms,
always at the edge of memory.
 RHYS

A warm sigh of spring breeze weaves through Aspen Glen. The sky is a spotless blue canvas, so inviting, not even I could
stay inside.
I stretch on the quay, the sun touching the exposed skin of my arms. My gaze flits over the lake’s surface, but I can’t
pay attention to the beauty of the place.
My mind is on Amelia, spinning with yesterday’s chance encounter, her sass echoing in my memories.
She was not meant to be here, and I was not meant to be thinking about her. The age difference is just one of the problems.
Her father is trying to fucking destroy my neighborhood.
I shake myself back to reality. Yes, it’s good to remind myself of my purpose. I’m here to investigate, to find proof. And I’m
only supposed to talk to her to gather information.
No matter how tempting she is.
A flutter of movement across the water snags my attention. Amelia emerges from her house, the sunlight igniting her copper
hair. She lowers herself into a kayak, her long-sleeved swimsuit hugging her form, exposing smooth legs.
I refuse to acknowledge whatever my stomach is doing.
She hasn’t seen me yet. My fingers twitch as I straighten my back. I wish I had my binoculars.
But I don’t need it. Amelia paddles in a circle around the lake, ever closer. Anxiety knots inside me.
I clench my jaw as if I could keep my reactions at bay, but my traitorous body doesn’t care for it.
Her gaze lifts, catching mine, and time slows. A smile blooms on her face, bright and unassuming, and something flickers in
my chest, unexpected and unwelcome.
She aims at my quay and rows my way. No time to get inside the house now. My mind races with topics for small talk.
“Surprisingly hot for spring, isn’t it?” I call out, my voice betraying none of the electric jolt her smile sent through me.
“You won’t see me complaining,” she retorts, her tone light and playful. The kayak steadies beside the quay, and she rests
her paddle across the cockpit. “I didn’t know we were neighbors. I could have let you keep the cocoa, then come in and steal
it.”
My lips almost betray me into a smile. “And if I knew you were so desperate for it, I would never have argued.”
She smiles. “Are you related to the previous owner? He was such a kind soul. I haven’t seen him in years.”
I shake my head. “Just rented the place for some peace. Apparently, the previous owner passed away and his heirs sold it.”
Something like surprise crosses her face. “Oh, so I can relate.”
I arch an eyebrow. “You’re renting the place, too?” The question is rhetorical. I know it belongs to her father.
“No, I mean wanting some peace. I haven’t been out of big cities for years.” Her laughter ripples across the distance
between us. “Do you miss the sound of ambulance sirens already?”
“Definitely not. A man would have to be crazy to miss that.” I watch her expression dance with amusement. This looks like
a suitable moment to probe for information. “Sounds like you haven’t had a vacation in a while.”
“Indeed.” She sighs. “Getting into law school was hard, then keeping high scores...” She shrugs, as if that wasn’t an
enormous accomplishment. “No one said becoming a lawyer would be easy.”
“Lawyer, huh?” I lean forward, my elbows on my knees, the wood of the quay creaking. “Where did you go?”
“Washington.”
“Nice.” I nod slowly. “Makes sense. You being a lawyer.”
“What do you mean?” Her eyes narrow, a spark of defiance igniting within.
“You were quite combative yesterday. I’m glad you’re not suing me.”
She chuckles. Something squeezes inside my chest.
I close my hand in a fist, my nails digging into my palm to force me to focus.
“Must be nice,” I start, “to afford such a place at your age. Law must be paying off.”
The corner of her mouth twitches upward, and she runs a hand through her hair, strands slipping like silk between her
fingers. “It’s my father’s. It’s been in the family for years.”
 I nod, choosing my words. “Ah, so the rich kid gets to use Daddy’s mountain house whenever she wants.” My words are a
jab, meant to offend. “It must be good.”
“I don’t,” she snaps back. “I just told you I haven’t had a vacation in years.”
Good. I found a soft spot.
“If your dad can afford a mountain house you barely use, then you must be one of those nepo babies.”
Amelia’s laugh carries a sharp edge, slicing through the space between us. “You know nothing about me.”
“No, I don’t. But your father must be loaded if he has a mansion he never visits.”
Amelia bristles, her eyes flaring under the sunlight. Shit, she’s absolutely gorgeous. I can only imagine how stunning she
looks when working on her cases, defending them passionately.
She tilts her chin up. “He’s a busy man, and the house holds family memories. I understand why he never comes here. But
also,” with a flick of her wrist, she maneuvers her kayak around, “it’s his money, so it’s none of your business.” She paddles
away.
“Running away this soon, Red?” I call after her, but she doesn’t look back; she just paddles harder. “Can I at least have
your name?”
She shoots me a glare over her shoulder. “Amelia,” she calls back.
I bite down a smile. “Rhys.”
She makes no move to show she heard me. I watch her go; every stroke is a testament to her fiery spirit. It’s a spirit I should
exploit, not admire. Yet here I am, caught up in the memory of her laugh.
Unwittingly, Amelia has proven two points.
One, her father has more money than he could ever spend, and his money comes from the suffering of people like me and
my family.
Two, she doesn’t know he comes up here every couple of months. So, it’s secretive, and that means he’s hiding something.
As I cast a glance at the empty lake before me, the truth claws at the edges of my conscience. I tell myself that playing her is
a strategy, a necessary deception, but the heat that Amelia ignites within me is no lie.
No matter. I’ll get close to Amelia, unearth what I need, and leave. That’s the mission—nothing more.
 A M E LI A

T he oven’s heat wafts in waves through the kitchen. I turn the oven light on, my gaze fixed on the cake behind the glass,
willing it to rise, golden and perfect. I can barely wait for the smell to fill the house.
That’s how the house smelled when my mother was alive. It’s a bittersweet memory.
My thoughts drift as I turn the oven light off and start working on my hot cocoa. And as every other time these past few
days, my thoughts wander to the man across the lake.
Rhys—stubborn, enigmatic Rhys with his black eyes that seem to see too much. Every time our gazes lock, it feels like he
sees more than the skin. He sees inside me.
And I’m not entirely sure this is a positive thing.
He’s irritating as a pebble in a shoe, yet somehow, amidst the rough edges, there’s something interesting about him. Maybe
it’s the mysterious, almost gloomy vibe. Maybe it’s because he’s the first real man to look at me like that.
But like what? I’m not sure. There’s a fire in his eyes, but sometimes I’m not sure if it’s the good or the bad kind of flames.
It doesn’t matter. Fire burns all the same.
Shaking my head, I move to the drawer, searching for a mug. Mom used to have a whole collection, but there are no signs of
it now. Just regular black mugs.
I spent quite a few holidays in this house. Mom loved the privacy it gave us. It was such a unique experience from back
home. And there was this neighbor, the previous owner of Rhys’s house, who used to be so kind to me.
I recall floaties gripping my arms, the plastic smell mixing with lake water as I ran at the edge of the lake, splashing with
abandon. An older man, his features softened by the mist of years past, chased me, laughter on his face, while my parents were
in the house.
What happened to him? His name eludes me—I remember calling him “uncle,” but my parents have no siblings. I used to
wish for cousins. The kindness that man showed me, though, remains imprinted in my heart.
I have two pieces of information. I know that he passed away because Rhys mentioned it, and I have the address of what
used to be his house.
I tap my phone alive and search for the address of the neighboring house, seeking any news from the area. There’s nothing.
At least nothing in recent years.
Another memory drifts to me. He was a friend of my father’s, I think. My fingers dance across the screen. Maybe I can find
news about my father related to the man. If they were friends, my father had to be at his funeral.
“Edgar Frost” funeral
The page loads. And there’s a hit. An old article.
Edgar Frost among the people present at...
As I’m about to click the link, anticipation tightening my chest, there comes a knock—insistent, impatient—from the front
door. I jump out of my skin.
Phone forgotten for the moment, I stride across the cool floors, my bare feet silent. My heart races as I tell myself not to
increase expectations.
But no other person would knock on my door.
Rhys stands there, his leather jacket fitting him like a second skin, sunlight casting sharp lines across his face as he leans
against the door frame. The man is all lines and edges, stiff even in his most casual pose.
His longish black hair looks so soft, though.
Our eyes meet. My heart threatens to climb my throat.
“Yes?” I ask, my voice coming firmer than I feel.
“Your car.”
I blink twice. “What?”
“Your car. It’s got a flat,” he says, his voice filled with disinterest.
I’m so taken by the gravel in his tone that I almost miss the words. “What?” I repeat. “No. That’s impossible.”
 Those tires are new, barely a few weeks old. Things don’t add up. Suspicion blooms, prickling my skin.
Rhys’s empty face changes. His brows push together, a deep crease forming between them. A tiny rush fills my chest.
“Why would I waste my time telling annoying women that their tires are flat?” His jaw works.
I shoot him a glare. “Show me,” I demand, not backing down. It is strange for the tires to be flat. They are new, and they
were alright last time I parked.
Rhys huffs with impatience before stepping back. I follow him outside, curling my toes on the cold stone ground, until we
reach the sleek metal body of my car, its front tire indeed sagging towards the ground.
“Great,” I breathe out, my shoulders slumping. I just changed these tires. Arching an eyebrow, I approach it and bend to
inspect the rubber. It doesn’t look slashed or anything.
Rhys lets out a sharp breath. “I’ll change it for you,” Rhys grunts, tugging his jacket off and rolling up his sleeves, revealing
forearms corded with strength. Thick veins bulge down the tanned skin to his wrist and over the back of his hand.
My throat goes dry. I had no idea forearms could be sexy.
“Red?” he calls out, arching an eyebrow. “Your car jack and keys. Where’s your spare?”
I know how to change a tire. There are a set of skills I think every human should learn—to swim, to cook, to change a tire.
But when Rhys crosses his arms over his chest and his biceps curl, I know I’m weak.
I might pass out if he covers his forearms again.
“I’ll get the keys,” I blurt out, my voice betraying none of the disquiet that gnaws at my insides.
I unlock the trunk, lift the floor panel, and reveal the spare, waiting next to the jack. Stepping back, I give Rhys space. He
kneels next to the car. I adjust my position so I can watch him flex.
My teenage years were focused on studying hard to get into law school. I barely had any time to crush on any boys. Now,
it’s all coming back with a vengeance.
Every time his biceps curl, stretching the material of his shirt, I have to clench my jaw. I have to make sure I’m not
drooling.
His big hands loosen the lug nuts with a methodical rhythm. He works in silence for a couple of minutes.
“Have you eaten at the Bluebird Cafe?” he asks without looking up. “I heard it’s pretty good.”
Heat rushes to my face. I feel like he caught me staring, though he hasn’t looked up. “No. This is my first time back in
years.” My voice comes out rasping. I clear my throat.
“Family trips?” He glances at me, his eyes narrowing for a second.
“Used to.” I shift from one foot to the other, hoping my toes won’t freeze off. “Stopped after my mother...” A lump forms in
my throat. “After she passed.”
Rhys nods. It’s almost sharp. “Sorry about that. What about your dad? You said he never comes here?”
I shrug, running a hand through my hair. “I don’t think so. We don’t really... We don’t talk much outside of work. He really
likes his work.” Sometimes, I think it’s the one thing my father loves.
Rhys pulls the flat tire out and lies it next to him. He shoots me a quizzical glance. “Why are you here by yourself? Aren’t
you too young to be spending time here alone?”
I bristle. “I’m twenty-three and I’m free to go wherever I like.”
“Are you?”
I narrow my eyes. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You didn’t sound as pleased with yourself as I’d expect from going to law school. Your father works so much that you
don’t see him. You don’t even know if he visits this place, so if he does, he’s not inviting you.” He shrugs. “Seems like law
school wasn’t your plan, but your father’s, and you’re just doing it to make him happy.”
My face goes hot. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t aware I asked you to profile me.” Propping my hands to my hips, I glare at him. “In
fact, I didn’t ask you anything, including your help.”
He shoots me a glance. “You looked like you needed it.”
“I can change tires.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“You just barged in!”
“Alright.” He shows his hands in surrender. “Don’t stress over it. I just find it odd that you’re okay living off your father’s
money without knowing a thing about him.”
My cheeks burn—a flush of indignation that spreads like wildfire. “That’s none of your business.”
“Just saying.”
“No. You’re accusing me of being a spoiled heiress with daddy issues.” I cross my arms, mimicking his earlier stance. My
pulse thrums in my ears. I’m always so collected—a habit my father beat into me. I have no idea how Rhys does this.
He drives me crazy.
“It wasn’t an accusation,” he says, rolling the spare into place.
“Sure sounded like one.” This man is so frustrating. Despite my irritation, I can’t help but notice how the muscles in his
back flex beneath the fabric of his shirt.
I feel stupid, with anger burning inside me as I drool over this man’s body. Talk about contradictory feelings.
“Done.” He stands, wiping his hands on his jeans with finality.
I chew on the inside of my cheek, gratitude a knot in my chest. “Thank you,” I say through gritted teeth. He did change my
tire, after all.
He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter.” His voice is brusque, and his eyes are as cold as slate. “This is pointless.”
My stomach squeezes. “Excuse me?” Fury mingles with the foolish flutter in my chest.
“Nothing.” He shakes his head, those dark eyes finding mine. I’m so tense, my hands tremble. I curl them into fists to hide
them. Rhys catches it all the same, a side of his lip tugging up. “Am I bothering, Red?” he prods, leaning closer.
“No,” I lie, my heart racing as he steps closer. His scent washes over me and I even forget the cold.
His eyes take a tour of my face. “Pity. I enjoy seeing you fluster.” He turns away.
My jaw drops. I watch him go, unsure of what just happened. Was he teasing me? Was this all a joke?
I have no idea what’s going on.
I storm back into the house, slamming the door behind me harder than necessary. I curse Rhys under my breath, ignoring the
warmth on my cheeks. My head is so full of him that I almost forget my phone over the kitchen island as I make a beeline to the
oven.
Oh, yeah, I was looking for my father’s friend. The kind man.
I’m still huffing as I unlock the phone. The page has loaded. I skim its contents.
His name was Caleb Bloom. The article was published fifteen years ago in a local newspaper. My dad was present at his
funeral. There was a robbery. The cause of death...
My blood turns to ice. All irritation flies out of the window. I raise my eyes, finding the lights of the house across the lake.
Caleb Bloom was killed. Right there, in Rhys’s living room.
 A M E LI A

T he morning sun does nothing to warm my insides. Guilt claws at my conscience. I could barely sleep last night, going
over Montana’s laws and wondering if I should tell Rhys about the previous owner.
The secret of the death in his house weighs on me. He knew nothing about the previous owner other than that he
died, so it’s obvious he doesn’t know what happened. No one told him.
Should I?
I pace the wooden floorboards, hands twisted together.
Rhys might be charming when he wants, but he’s been insufferable since I met him. Hot and cold. Or maybe just cold, and
I’m imagining the hot part. He did me a favor yesterday, but only after being rude. I owe him nothing.
Besides, it’s not my problem. And wouldn’t revealing it add unnecessary drama? He might not even believe me.
I sink my teeth into my bottom lip. That’s no good. I’m not this kind of person. I hate concealing things from others. There’s
a reason I refuse to take cases I don’t believe in—a long-standing gripe with Dad.
Middle ground. That’s what I need. If only we could start over...
Determination surges through me, stiffening my spine. I need an olive branch. Rhys thinks I’m spoiled, but there’s one way I
could both offer peace and show him I’m not useless.
I’ll bake a cake. Everyone loves cake.
I grab the materials and hit the bake button in the oven. I’m already running out of cocoa, but it’s for a good cause. The
mixture swirls velvet-black in the pan. Into the oven it goes and then I wait.
At last, the cake sits, cooled on a wire rack—just in time for a late breakfast or brunch. I smile to myself as I plate it.
There’s no way Rhys will maintain his attitude after looking at this.
The spring sun dapples the path to Rhys’s house. The morning is warm enough that I didn’t even have to put the cardigan on.
My heart hammers out a rhythm of anticipation with each step around the lake. It doesn’t help that the distance is greater than I
expected—I could swear there was a shortcut.
It doesn’t matter. My knuckles rap against his door; the sound is a sharp echo in the quiet morning. I take a breath and wait.
Rhys’s heavy steps announce him from inside the house. I swallow, straightening my spine and putting a smile on my face.
Not too large. I don’t need to look overeager.
He opens the door and I have to tilt my head back to look at him. He gapes back at me, a dark eyebrow arched in suspicion,
sunlight glinting off the stubble shadowing his jaw.
A beat passes. Two. Only then I find my voice.
“Morning! Got something for you,” I say, thrusting the cake forward. “I used the cocoa for it. Since we met reaching out for
it, I thought it would be fair, you know? I mean, to share.”
Warmth creeps up my neck. I’m never this tongue-tied. Dad would scream at me if he saw me like this.
Rhys’s eyebrow doesn’t move as the black pools of his eyes dart between my face and the cake. Finally, he lets go of the
door frame in favor of leaning against it, his beefy arms crossing over his chest.
“I don’t like cake,” he rumbles.
If he had sprouted a second head, I would be less surprised.
My arms hover in midair, cake aloft, as if the space between us might swallow up the awkwardness. But it lingers, thick as
the frosting I spread with such precision only minutes before.
What do you do when your peace offering is rejected?
“Everyone likes cake,” I assert, though it sounds more like a question, even to my ears.
“Guess I’m not everyone,” Rhys counters, his gaze unwavering.
“Right, because you’re the exception to every rule,” I quip, relaxing my arms to hold the cake closer. “I wish I could have
recorded it. For posterity.”
“Recorded it?”
“You should always record things in case you need proof, you know? I can’t believe you don’t like cake and no one would
believe me if I told them.”
He shrugs. “Some people don’t like it.”
“Never met.” I take a beat. “Maybe you’ve never had a good cake.”
Rhys narrows his eyes, but his lips tilt upward. “Are you food-shaming me, Red?”
I glare back at him. “Amelia. My name’s Amelia.”
“So, you don’t like it when I call you Red?”
“Obviously not.”
“Good to know.” And his lips stretch into a grin that makes butterflies take flight inside me. “Is that all, Red?”
The nerve of this man! I’ve just told him I dislike the name. I’ve heard it a thousand times, and it never gets amusing.
Even if his voice goes all sultry when he says it…
“Yes!” I squeak once I notice I’ve been staring. “That’s all. I was only trying to be civil. But I guess that can’t be done with
you.”
I shouldn’t get mad. He clearly enjoys it too much.
He shrugs, that irritatingly sexy grin still on his face. “Never asked for it. Keep your cake.” He starts to close the door, then
pauses. “Have a good day, Red.” And the door slams shut.
My blood boils. I can’t believe I’m having this reaction to him. I’ve heard so much worse. For some reason, his name-
calling makes me angry.
I clench my teeth and groan in frustration as I whirl around and stomp back to the house.
At least I have cake.
My thoughts are a whirlwind of contradictions as I go over the conversation. What am I doing? Why does Rhys, of all
people, make my heart race? He’s supposed to be annoying, headstrong, and rude—not the object of some twisted fascination.
My reflection in the microwave scowls back at me. In my line of work, it’s not uncommon to be insulted or threatened. And
I’ve always kept my cool.
Almost always. Rhys is the exception.
I sigh. This is ridiculous. I came here to relax and to check some things off my list before I’m drowning in work. Rhys
won’t help me with any of it.
Not that I’d want him to.
Tonight, I’ll go out, find a club, dance with strangers, laugh too loud, and do something reckless—anything to scrub the
image of Rhys’s smile from my mind.
Anything to forget the way his voice rasps when he calls me Red.
 RHYS

T he sun is about to rise as I approach the house. Amelia has gone to sleep late the past few nights, so she won’t be up so
soon. It’s the perfect moment for me to act.
The lake’s reflection flickers on the house’s expansive windows, but it doesn’t make the steel monstrosity any
prettier. I take small steps closer as I search for service.
My fingers dance across the phone, urging it to connect with the network. I’m not especially good at this, but I have to try.
If I gain access to the Wi-Fi, I might be able to use it to access other computers on the same network. Hope flutters in my
chest as I imagine what I could find. Emails or some communication with someone Frost shouldn’t be talking...
Anything. I need anything.
The app I built is simple, but it can crack a Wi-Fi password if it’s not too difficult or encrypted.
The app finds the service. My heart jumps in expectation. I run the application.
And I have a hit in less than one minute.
A door hisses open. My spine stiffens. Fuck. I shove my phone into my pocket and look up.
Amelia’s already staring at me. She steps out onto the porch, a broom in hand. Her dark auburn hair is pulled into twin
braids over her shoulders, catching the sunlight in fiery ripples. Light brown eyes meet mine with a spark, burning gold in the
morning light. She wears sweatpants and a tank top that reveals and hides at the same time.
The light hits her just right as she steps closer, haloing her against the sun. She’s almost holy, with her full curves and smart
eyes.
Her lips curl and I know I’m about to get some sass.
“Playing hide and seek by yourself, Rhys? Or should the attention of a stalker flatter me?” Amelia’s voice dances through
the air, laced with sarcasm. “Are you creeping into the house for the cake you refused yesterday?”
“No, I still don’t care about your cake,” I counter, my pulse betraying the calm I feign. “Can’t a man admire the view
without being labeled a stalker?”
Her laugh wraps around the spring air, and I can’t help but marvel at how she stands defiant. A brush of wind carries her
scent toward me, flowers and strawberries intermingling with sugar.
I was never a man for sweets, but there’s something about her scent that makes my mouth water.
“Sure,” she says, leaning on the broom handle, “the view here has quite the reputation. All these aspens,” she says, waving
around her, “just like the ones you have on your side of the lake.”
“The trail passes near the house, so I have no option,” I insist. “Besides, the view here is not so bad.”
Oh, fuck. Did I say this out loud?
I clench my jaw, because not only did I say it, but she heard me, and she understood what I meant. Her cheeks go pink, and
her eyes widen.
No flirting with the damn enemy’s daughter, Rhys. You knew that. I thought I knew that.
But one look at this woman under the soft light, her feet bare on the deck, the small hairs curling around her ears, and I stop
thinking.
I have to fix this.
“What are you even doing up at this hour? Aren’t rich girls supposed to sleep in?”
Her face changes, her brow furrowing and her eyes narrowing into a glare. Yes. That’s what I wanted. I need her rage, not
her blushes.
Even though I quite like those.
“I’m too used to getting up early. No matter what time I go to sleep. Usually, I’d be getting ready for my internship.” She
tilts the broom. “So, I thought I’d sweep the deck. I want to use it later.”
I can’t help but chuckle. “Surprised you know how to use a broom.”
“I’ve always taken care of the places I live in,” Amelia retorts, sweeping an invisible speck of dust from the porch.
“Besides, hiring a maid while I’m here would be cruel, considering the distance they’d have to travel.”
 I’m so taken aback by her empathy that I can’t hide my expression of surprise. Shit. I expected many things from Frost’s
daughter… But not this.
Not empathy.
Her lips twist and this time, there’s no sarcasm in her voice. “You really think I didn’t know how to sweep? That’s sad.”
Guilt bubbles inside me. “No. I’m just messing with you.”
She smiles until it turns into a grin. “I know. I was just messing with you.”
This woman. I roll my eyes. “You’re so annoying.”
“You really think I didn’t know how to sweep?” she says in a thinner voice, making fun of herself. “Come on. Everyone
knows how to sweep. You just…” She mimics the motion. “Sweep!”
I shake my head at her antics. There’s no stopping the smile stretching my lips now. “You have a smart mouth.”
“Thank you.” She drops into a mock curtsy.
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
“I know.” And she grins.
“How can you be like this so early?”
She shrugs and starts sweeping. “I’m still angry at your refusal. Cake has always been my secret weapon and my last resort.
And you scoffed at it.”
I cross my arms, widening my stance. “Oh, so you try to fix your problems with cake? Is this a fairy tale movie?”
“Of course not. If it were, we’d have a dramatic rain scene. Accidental touches. A prince. That one’s seriously missing.
Also, the longing looks between the princess and the prince.” And she bats her eyelashes exaggeratedly.
“That was longing?” I make a confused face. “I thought you had something in your eye.”
She laughs, and the sound goes straight to my head. “Maybe it’s just my natural reaction to your overwhelming charm. At
least you know what a fairy tale movie is.” Her eyes twinkle with mischief. “There’s hope for you.”
I shake my head. “Maybe I’m lost. It’s been years since I last had the time for any kind of movie.” With all the problems in
the neighborhood, I was never in the mood, even if I had the time.
“Too much work?”
“Yeah,” I lie. An idea blooms in the back of my head. “I’ll have to drive down into Aspen Glen for a meeting later tonight.”
“Oh, I’m sorry about that. And you said you wanted some quiet time.”
“Yeah,” I reply. “Work can swallow you whole.”
“Only if you let it,” she says softly. “Life’s got more to offer. Or at least that’s what I tell myself. Constantly.”
There’s a sadness in her eyes that squeezes my chest. I should walk away and delve deeper into the purpose that brought me
here. Yet her words linger.
“I should go,” I say, desperate to get out of her presence, ready to leave but tethered by an invisible thread.
“Enjoy the rest of your walk,” Amelia calls out as I turn to go. “Your stalker game is weak. Try not to get caught next time!”
My shoulders shake as I chuckle under my breath. I cross the rest of the path with strides, and only when I reach the house
do I look back.
Amelia still stands on the deck, bathed in sunlight, radiant against the backdrop of her cold fortress of a house. For a
moment, I let my mind wander. I let myself imagine.
And then I force my feet to carry me away.
 A M E LI A

T he deck beneath my feet creaks as I step outside. Dusky skies, brushed with lavender and gold, stretch over Aspen
Glen. A perfect moment for my long-awaited R&R.
I saunter towards the fire pit built into the deck. Flames leap to life, crackling whispers filling the air. I let the fire
feed itself as I rush back into the house to grab the rest of my things.
The fluffy blanket goes over the cushioned bench. I tuck the wine bottle into the corner and take my place under the blanket,
a wine glass in one hand and my e-reader in the other.
I take a deep breath and release a sigh. This. This is what I needed. No more thinking about my upcoming job, Dad’s high
expectations, and...
And that stupidly handsome man across the lake.
My eyes shoot up to his house, even unbidden. It’s a dark silhouette against the twilight. No glow from within, no sign of
his car. He did mention he had an arrangement.
A “meeting.”
I bet it’s a date. With a woman his age who has a job independent from her father and whom he doesn’t obviously hates.
His voice echoes in the back of my head. Red. Red.
A shiver runs down my body. I tell myself it’s because of the cooling evening. It’s definitely, absolutely not because of a
man who rejected me time and time again.
Sipping the wine, I find myself immersed in a romance book. The fact that it’s an age-gap romance is just a coincidence. I
would never ask for recommendations from a reader group about romances between an older man and a younger woman.
Words blur as I drink, each page tightening the knot inside me.
A particular steamy scene makes my mind ignite. The man in the book has Rhys’s face and Rhys’s stubble-shadowed jaw.
Silky black hair, just long enough to run my fingers through. He has eyes like midnight storms, his grave voice dissolving into
the filthy words the hero says.
The fire crackles, casting long shadows on the deck. I take another sip of wine, my thoughts drifting back to Rhys. The hero
in the book grabs the heroine’s hair, claiming her mouth with his. I can’t help but imagine it’s Rhys. His hands on me, his lips
on me.
That stubble along my inner thighs.
I reach between my legs, my fingers brushing against my skin. I’m slightly tipsy, and my inhibitions are low. And it’s not
like there’s anyone here to catch me. My hot neighbor isn’t home.
I drag a hand up my inner thigh, pulling my knees up. The dress I’m wearing pools on my hips as I lean back. I imagine
Rhys’s stubble scratching against my skin and his massive hands gripping my hips. Wetness makes the apex of my thighs slick.
I glance over at his house again. My heart races. The lights are still off. He’s not here. I’m alone. He would never catch me.
Why does that thought disappoint me?
I shove that aside, focusing on the feelings of my fingers along my leg and brushing over my panties. Pleasure coils inside
me.
I keep reading, and once the hero slips his hand inside the heroine’s panties, I do the same. I imagine Rhys gathering the
wetness there and using it to massage me. My eyes flutter shut as I drop back onto the bench, a moan escaping my lips.
My imagination is wild enough to imagine the rest. His mouth on me, and his rough fingers twisting my nipples. His entire
attention is on bringing me pleasure.
I rub myself faster, my breath hitching. Drop my knees wider. One of my legs escapes the cover of the blanket. I imagine
Rhys inside me, filling me up. Being my first. I picture his face, his dark eyes staring into mine as he stretches me to fit him. I
moan louder, my orgasm building.
And oh, the way his husky voice would sound against my ear, his stubble on my neck... The thought sends me over the edge.
I sink my teeth into my bottom lip, groaning as my body rocks with bliss, lightning coursing through my veins.
I lean back on the bench, my body spent. Deep breaths. My heart pounds. I look up at the stars, my body still tingling as I
stretch out.
I should stop thinking about him like this. But I can’t. I just can’t. Maybe it’s how intriguing he is. Maybe it’s because he’s
so tough to get to know. But I can’t deny it.
I curl up on the bench, wrapping the blanket around me. I should forget about him—about his eyes, about his hands, about
his lips.
But as I shiver with another aftershock, I know I won’t. I know I can’t.
Because no matter how hard I try, Rhys has burrowed himself into my mind. Even when he feels nothing but hate toward
me.
 RHYS

M y body trembles with the tightness of my muscles. I swallow again, but there’s a knot in my throat. I loom over
Amelia’s slumbering form, watching her breathe. The coolness of the night sends goosebumps down her soft arms.
This woman will drive me crazy.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, the word drowned out by the pulse hammering in my ears.
Each heartbeat makes my cock throb. My fists clench, nails biting into my palms, as I force my relentless erection to
subside.
Shit. There’s no way I’ll ever forget what I saw.
Even though I told her I had a meeting, I didn’t. I put the car away in a more secluded spot, I turned off the lights, and I
waited for her to go to sleep.
The plan was simple. She would believe I was out. I would slip into the house after she went to bed, search through her
father’s things, and leave. Even if she thought something was amiss, she wouldn’t consider me since I was away.
A fake alibi, so to speak.
The problem is—I did not expect to watch her spread her thick legs and touch herself into the fucking hottest orgasm I’ve
ever seen.
A better man would have left. He would have looked away.
Not me. Fuck, I watched with my eyes peeled open. I couldn’t even blink. I could barely believe it until halfway through it.
Two seconds after she came, I was spilling all over the floor.
She’s gorgeous, yes, but she’s been taking over my mind for other reasons. I’ve spent too long going over our arguments, the
way she blushes, and how much I enjoy annoying her.
Now it’s all gone to shit. I want this woman. Badly.
A deep breath does little to calm me. I gaze into her relaxed face, then down her pebbled arms. She shouldn’t sleep out
here. But if I wake her up, I’ll both miss my chance at entering the house and I’ll freak her out. She’ll definitely wonder if I
saw her.
Which I did. And I’m not sure I’ll be able to hide the proof in my still-tented pants.
It’s an effort to lift her while touching her as little as possible. But I move, silent as a shadow, carrying her through the
threshold into the house.
She leans closer to my chest as I search for her bedroom. I hold my breath, afraid I’ll wake her up if I breathe too hard.
Gently, I lay her down on the four-poster bed. The only sound is the rustle of fabric as I tuck her in. She stirs, a frown
fleeting across her features, and my heart clenches.
On a whim, I want to cradle her. To fight against her nightmares. To keep her safe.
I take a full step back. Proximity is driving me insane. The feeling of her warmth is singed to my chest.
What the fuck is she doing to me?
I slip into the master’s closet. Almost all clothes are Amelia’s, but there are two garment bags in the back. I zip one open.
A black tux, the scent of masculine cologne heady. For someone who supposedly never comes up here, the clothes look clean
and freshly pressed.
But I’m not here for clothes; I’m after something far more incriminating. Drawer by drawer, I scour through meticulously
folded clothes. Nothing. No hidden documents. Cursing under my breath, I force myself to move on.
I step out into the hallway without a sound and push open the next door. The office smells of leather and whisky. My heart
races. There has to be something here.
Again, I go through drawers, searching for folders. But no. Even here, papers reveal nothing but standard, unsuspicious
transactions. No smoking gun, no silver bullet, just the bitter taste of frustration.
Shit. Is the house useless in the end? Did I come here for nothing?
The image of Amelia flashes across my mind, as if my brain is telling me it’s worth it because of her.
No. This should be a reminder of how much I must pull away from this, from her, and how impossible that seems now.
 She’s the daughter of your enemy. And I must find something about Frost. I must. There’s no other way.
I head to the kitchen, forcing myself to put distance between me and Amelia. I turn off the lights as I go until there are only
the kitchen lights.
The kitchen is immense, all stainless steel and marble. There’s not much to go through here, just the drawers and
cupboards. I’ll have to check them to be sure.
But first, the papers on the counter catch my eye.
My heart skips a beat. There’s no way it could be this easy, right?
I approach, suspicious. When I lean closer and skim the contents, my shoulders slump.
This isn’t Frost’s. It’s Amelia’s. Her signature is at the end of printed emails, and her name is at the top of case reports. I
frown, searching for names. Amelia said she was taking time off work. Then why are these here?
My pulse whooshes in my ears. These are case notes for an NGO. Apparently, Amelia has been working with them for free
since she started law school.
“Damn it,” I whisper, flipping through the pages. She’s been working with NGOs for people who have been wrongfully
convicted and can’t afford a lawyer.
I’ve been trying to keep away. Trying to forget this attraction, this strange obsession I’ve developed with her.
And yet…
She’s nothing like him. Nothing like the man poised to destroy my neighborhood without a second thought. The place I grew
up in, gone because of greed.
An idea blooms in the back of my mind.
A hollow laugh escapes me. If there’s a way to bring Frost down, it might just be through the very thing his daughter
believes in. I remember seeing NGO donations in a drawer upstairs. Perhaps the NGOs he’s partnered with hold the key.
Maybe those donations might not be donations at all. Maybe he’s using them for money laundering or something of the sort.
I shove the memory of Amelia away. She’s amazing, yes… but that doesn’t change what I need to do.
Even if that breaks Amelia’s heart.
 A M E LI A

B alancing the coffee cake in one hand, I rap on Rhys’s door. The solid thud of my knuckles against wood echoes, and the
anticipation bubbles inside me.
I chew on my bottom lip, waiting, pretending to admire the blue skies while I’m two seconds away from a heart
attack.
The door swings open. Rhys’s shirt clings to his muscular frame like a second skin. The morning light throws shadows
across the sharp angles of his jaw.
My breath rushes out of me. Again. The mere sight of his bulk and those stormy eyes on me makes my heart race.
“Good morning.” I thrust the cake toward him as if it were a shield against the electricity crackling between us. “I know
you said you don’t like cake, but maybe you don’t like it because it’s too sweet? So, I made a coffee cake.” I meet his eyes. He
hasn’t kicked me out yet, so I open a hesitant smile. “Would you like to try?”
His eyes—black, unreadable—flick from the cake to my face. There’s a beat, then a second. A smile tugs at his lips,
softening the severity of his features.
“You’re persistent.”
I open an awkward smile. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” He offers his palms.
The butterflies that have been living inside me have become a hurricane.
For the first time since we’ve been neighbors, he reaches out and accepts the cake.
“Smells good,” he says, the rasp in his voice sending shivers down my spine. His eyes are not on the cake anymore, but
staring at me.
Warmth floods into my cheeks. “Let’s hope it tastes good, too.”
His eyes darken, if possible. Fire licks my cheeks. He steps back inside the house and motions for me to follow him.
The living room is a large open space with huge windows, bathed in the golden hues of the late morning sun filtering
through the curtains. It’s all wood and sunlight—much cozier than my family’s house.
Rhys guides me to his kitchen island and props the cake there.
“Sit,” he commands with a nod toward a high stool, and I obey. “Coffee?”
I arch an eyebrow, trying to sound confident, though my heart stutters. “You’re going to drink coffee with a coffee cake.”
He shoots me a glance over his shoulder as he approaches the French press.
“What would you drink then, Red?”
I roll my eyes, but a smile stretches my lips. “Hot cocoa, but I ran out with yesterday’s cake.”
He shoots me another glance, amusement across his features. Rhys says nothing else for a couple of minutes as he brews
coffee.
For some reason, this silence isn’t awkward. It’s pretty comfortable.
He sits opposite me with a mug of coffee for him… and a mug of cocoa for me.
I arch an eyebrow. “You have cocoa?”
He says nothing.
“I thought you didn’t like it.”
He shrugs, but I see his jaw muscles tightening to suppress a smile. Rhys slices through the thick crumb topping of the cake
and gives me a plate.
“Lucky me you accidentally bought some cocoa then,” I tease, more comfortable than I’ve felt in a while. This situation is
oddly domestic. I blow on the hot mug, then sip off the cocoa.
It’s not my candy-cane kind, but it’s thick, dark cocoa. The good kind.
“Lucky you indeed,” he says, his smile widening. Rhys takes a bite, his eyebrows lifting in genuine surprise. “This isn’t
bad.”
“Isn’t bad?” I scoff, rolling my eyes. “High praise coming from you.”
 “It is,” he insists. “You should remember I don’t like cake.”
“You didn’t.” I grin.
He chuckles. I almost jump out of my skin in surprise.
A smug satisfaction swells in my chest. But then his gaze lingers, becomes darker. My skin feels heavy, as if his gaze held
weight.
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. I sip from the hot cocoa, but it's of no use. Electricity arches between us, singing
along my skin. It’s as if a rope tugs me closer to him.
Rhys’s dark eyes stare, seeing into me. The rogue thought of wanting to feel his stubble flashes in the back of my mind.
A hot flush creeps up my neck as I recall last night. In the steamy romance book, my thoughts consumed by the man before
me, and I touched myself thinking about him.
All the possibilities. Just the thought of it makes me clamp my knees together.
I clear my throat. “So... there’s a reason for the cake.”
He takes a beat. “Is there?” His voice rasps, hoarser than before.
Shivers ride down my back. “I fell asleep on the deck yesterday.”
“Did you now?” His voice is a low rumble, stirring up a tornado in my stomach.
“Uh-huh... and somehow, I woke up inside.” I glance away, then back at him.
He stares, unfaltering.
“And?” he asks, his voice deep with challenge.
Tilting my chin up, I stare back. “I think you carried me in.”
He cocks his head, an eyebrow arching. It always makes me think he’s seeing me from a new angle. And I like the rush of
surprising him.
Rhys unfolds his hulking body, getting to his feet. He closes the distance between us, each step measured. I freeze, his body
inches from brushing my knees.
“I did,” he says, his voice lowering.
The air thickens, my heart races. His closeness is overwhelming. He’s so tall up close.
Rhys steps closer, his thighs against my knees. I part them in a daze. Rhys steps in between my legs, his hulking body
shadowing me. My blood whooshes in my ears and need tightens between my hipbones. His scent inundates me. I can’t pull my
eyes away.
“Red,” he starts, a hand coming up to tuck my hair behind an ear. I shiver with the almost-touch. “When I saw you there,
exposed to anyone who would want to hurt you... I couldn’t leave you be. I had to get you inside.”
“Why would you care? I thought you hated me,” I say, my voice firm.
The weight of his stare pins me in place. Rhys’s hand curls around my jaw. He’s so much bigger. So big. He could break
me with one hand.
Instead, he chooses to light me up.
His lips crash against mine. Hard. There’s nothing sweet or gentle about the way he presses against me. It feels like gasping
for air after drowning.
My hands shoot out, grabbing onto Rhys’s hips, pulling him closer. He grabs my waist and puts me over the island, high
enough for him to walk between my knees.
Rhys shoves a hand into my hair, tugging as he parts my lips with his tongue. I give into the sensual sweeps of his tongue,
the taste of bitter coffee and sweet chocolate mixing.
He devours my mouth, swallowing my tentative gasps for air, sucking on my tongue, and scraping his teeth along my bottom
lip. Rhys kisses me with no holds barred, no restraints.
It’s pure and unfiltered need.
I hold back and try to keep up with his attentions. His hands don’t wander as much as I’d like them. My skin buzzes with
electricity.
Pleasure coils inside me. When he brushes his bulge against my thigh, I go from damp to soaked.
Rhys pulls back slightly, our foreheads touching, our breaths mingling as I take in a mouthful of air.
But when I meet his eyes, they’ve changed. There’s not the annoyance I became used to or the flashes of amusement. It’s not
with the desire he looked at me moments ago.
It looks strangely like sadness.
Rhys grabs my hips and moves me down, back to my feet. I sway for a moment, my legs trembling, but he holds me up. He
swallows hard.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“What?” I breathe out, my mind foggy with lust.
“You’re too good for the likes of me, Amelia. Shit, you’re too young. You shouldn’t get involved with someone like me.”
I blink several times. What? He’s the one who kissed me, and he’s rejecting me?
 “Really? You’re going to kiss me and tell me to leave because I’m too young?” My voice trembles, but I stare as hard as I
can. “Shouldn’t you have thought about that earlier?”
He nods. “Yes. Yes, I should. But I didn’t. I’m sorry.” He takes a beat, but I don’t even know what to say. “I acted on
impulse, and it won’t happen again.”
“Rhys—” My protest dies as he steps back, an ocean of turmoil swirling in his black eyes.
“Thanks for the cake.”
And there’s such finality in his voice that I have to clench my jaw and stride away. Shame burns in my cheeks. With a
hollow ache spreading through my chest, I rush back home, the taste of him still lingering on my lips.
 RHYS

T he scent of pine and earth fills my nostrils as I hesitate in front of her door. The mental image of her, with those bright
brown eyes that seem to look right through me, claws at my resolve.
Bit by bit, she chips at the sturdy walls I built. With those smiles and her sassiness, her big heart. I should walk
away, but my feet refuse to comply.
Once more, I tell myself it’s to get intel on her father, but it’s a half-hearted attempt to justify what I'm really after. It's not
just about Edgar Frost or his damn plans anymore. I'm here because...
No, I can't go there.
With a sigh that feels like defeat, my knuckles rap against the wood.
Light catches on her dark auburn hair when she opens the door. Amelia wears comfy-looking sweatpants and a fluffy
sweater that looks more like a blanket. I feast on the sight of her.
And the curve of her lips suggests she's also pleased to see me.
"Rhys," she breathes out, my name music on her tongue.
Better do it before I find my senses and give up.
“Here,” I say, holding out the cocoa, my muscles coiled tight. “You said you ran out.”
If I thought her eyes were bright before, I was not ready for the way they glimmer now. Fucking hell, this woman is pure
sunshine.
"You remembered." A smile warms her face, momentarily blinding me. "Let’s put it to use." She steps into the house and
arches an eyebrow. “Come in?”
Amelia leaves the door open for me. The single cell that still works in my brain insists this is what I came here for: to have
access to the house during daylight, so I can learn the disposition of the furniture if I need it.
That’s a lie. Only half of me cares about looking at anything but her. I follow Amelia inside, closing the door behind me.
The house's interior is expensive, cold, and distant, much like Frost. Lots of metal, silver, and grays.
It’s ugly. It’s one of those places rich people spend a fortune to decorate and never use.
Amelia sticks out like a sore thumb in this place. She’s a ray of sunlight as she crosses barefoot to the kitchen, her fiery hair
swaying with every bouncy step.
She puts the cocoa down and whips around to the kitchen island. She still has it covered in paper sheets.
“I thought you were taking some time off,” I say, baiting her.
She chuckles as she gathers the papers into a neat pile and puts them away. “Well, yeah, but this is important.”
“So, you’re taking some time off to... keep working.”
Amelia scoffs. “No. This is not work work. And I have a list of things I want to do. It’s not only about this case.”
She really won’t talk about the NGO. Unlike her father, she’s not using volunteer work to her advantage. She’s just good.
I can’t believe she’s Edgar Frost’s daughter.
“What things?” I lean against the island as Amelia reaches for a pan.
“Mm…” Her cheeks go pink. It only makes me more curious. “Stargazing.”
I arch an eyebrow. That’s what got her blushing? “Stargazing.”
“Yeah. We’re far enough from big towns to get pretty skies.”
"Stargazing," I repeat, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. It seems so simple, so pure.
Amelia shoots me a glance over her shoulder. “What? Don’t mock me.”
“I’m not.” I take a seat by the island, keeping my gaze on her. Amelia busies herself by the stove, pouring milk into the pan
with practiced ease. “It sounds like you work hard.”
She lifts a shoulder. “Yeah, but it’s expected. I had to work hard to get into school, then I had to work hard to keep good
grades, then I have to work hard to do a good job…” She shrugs again, but it’s not as casual as she expects. I see the tightening
of her muscles. The twinge of sadness in her voice. “I’ve always had to deal with high expectations.”
“From whom?” I ask, even when I know the answer.
 She pauses, a shadow crossing her features. "My father," she says, and her voice is soft but heavy, like it's carrying more
weight than the words themselves. "He's... always had my life set out for me." She shoots a sad smile over her shoulder. “This
is my first break since high school."
Anger tightens in my stomach. Frost isn’t only cruel to the people in my neighborhood. He’s also cruel to his own daughter.
That’s how fucking evil this man is.
"Ever thought about changing courses?" I ask, doing my best to keep my voice flat.
"Yes, of course. But it’s hard to escape from under my father’s thumb. Besides, I could do some good as a lawyer. Help
people," she replies, stirring the milk.
Her conviction surprises me and takes me off guard. That’s what she’s doing with the NGO. She’s turning her father’s
cruelty into something good.
“Was he… always like this?”
"I like to think he got worse because he misses my mother, but... he was never very warm to start with. It’s just who he is."
"Missing someone shouldn't turn you cruel," I can't help but say. My voice is low, laced with something dark. Edged with
even more anger toward Frost.
Amelia pours hot cocoa into two mugs. “Yeah, I know. But it’s family and I guess we make certain sacrifices for family.”
Her words hit me like a boulder.
“Yes. Yes, we do.”
Amelia places the steaming cocoa in front of me. I was never a man for sweet treats like this one, but I would drink literal
mud to sit next to her for a moment.
She makes me want to stay, to try, and to change. Amelia soothes me. She makes me believe in goodness, even when I’m in
the middle of a hatred crusade.
It’s the way she curls her fingers around the cup, blowing at the steam, her knee so close to mine. It’s the copper hair
toppling down her fluffy hoodie. This is so…
Sublime.
“Would you like to have dinner with me?” I burst out. Against my better judgment. My eyebrows rise, surprised at myself.
The blush across her cheeks deepens and just that sight makes it worth it.
“Sure,” she whispers into the cocoa, her lips tilting up. And I’m so taken by those glittering eyes that I forget what I was
supposed to do here.
And it doesn’t even matter.
 A M E LI A

M y hand hovers before the dark-stained wood of Rhys's front door. I wait for my instincts to tell me to leave. When it
doesn’t, I knock, a sound that seems too loud in the mountain air.
I shift from foot to foot, the summer dress dancing around my knees. A breeze teases the hem, lifting it just
enough to send a shiver over my bare legs.
The door yawns open. Rhys’s intense black eyes take a tour of my body, dropping to the expanse of skin below the dress. I
hear his sharp intake of breath.
"Amelia," he rumbles, and the way he says my name sends another kind of shiver through me.
"Hi, Rhys." My voice betrays a tremble of excitement.
His gaze lingers on my lips for a split second longer than necessary. Flustered, I brush a stray curl behind my ear and force
myself to meet his eyes again.
How can this man make me feel both flustered and powerful in the same sentence?
"Come in," he says as he steps aside.
His living room greets me with a warmth that contrasts with the stark coldness of my family's place across the lake. The
furniture—plush sofas and solid oak tables—invokes a sense of home I've longed for but never known. Despite the comfort, the
walls are bare, with no pictures or decorations.
Rhys is as minimalist as he seems. He lingers back, letting me pass him, explore the living room.
"Did you pick all this out?" I ask, trailing my fingers along the back of a soft suede armchair.
"It came with the house." His voice is close, and I turn to find him watching me with those guarded eyes, a flicker of
something unreadable passing through them.
“It’s a nice place. What do you do for a living again?”
He passes me, a hand pressing to the small of my back. “Software engineer.”
“Oh. It pays well, then.”
He doesn’t reply, merely opening a small smile as we cross the living room.
“Well. I just graduated, but the house isn’t mine. I can barely afford my apartment with my internship.”
He tuts in agreement. “My parents let me stay with them through college. I wouldn’t have been able to afford anything with
my internship back then.”
I smile. He’s never mentioned his parents. “Are your parents grumpy like you?”
We walk into the dining room, next to the kitchen. The table is set for us two and golden bread waits for us on a tray with
two knives and butter.
Rhys pulls a chair out for me. “The bread is fresh. I just took it out.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “You baked bread.”
Rhys’s smile blossoms across his face. “So I can surprise you, too.”
My heart skips a beat so hard that I choke for a second. I had no idea he could look more handsome.
I tear a piece of the warm bread, steam wafting to my nose. It's crusty on the outside, soft on the inside. I slather it with
butter, and it melts immediately, sinking into the fluffy interior. The first bite is heaven. I groan in delight.
Rhys pours a deep red wine into two glasses, his movements controlled as he glances at me. "Is it up to your standards?"
"No. It’s much superior." I smile, and to my surprise, he smiles back. "I've never baked bread in my life. Was it hard?"
“Not at all.”
“Are you secretly a famous chef?”
Another smile. He’s spoiling me today. "No, I just had to pull my weight at home. Mom taught me to bake bread to sell to
the neighbors. We were poor, so we also had to be creative with meals.”
Guilt tugs at my chest. “I’m sorry your family went through difficulties. I’m sure they’re proud of who you became.”
The way he looks at me is entirely new. I feel exposed, like a nerve. He looks away.
"I'll teach you to bake if you want to," he says after a moment, ignoring my comment about his parents. He hands me a glass
of wine, and our fingers brush. Sparks shoot up my arm, and I almost drop the glass.
I take a sip, savoring the rich taste that complements the bread perfectly. "I'd like that." I take a beat. “Did I offend you? By
what I said about your parents?”
His eyebrows shoot up. “No. No, don’t worry about that. It’s not about you.”
And from that, I read a I’m not ready to talk about this, and I choose to respect it. There are some things about my family I
don’t enjoy talking about, too.
Rhys moves the subject away from family memories. He asks about my time in college, about volunteer work, and about
books. There's an ease between us that feels like slipping into a warm bath. His seriousness gives way to dry humor, and I find
myself laughing more than I have in a long time.
And Rhys hears me out when I talk about giving back to the community and how I wish I could do more. He reassures me
that I’m doing my best with the hand I was dealt with.
I don’t know why it means so much when it comes from him. I gaze at this beautiful, complex man as he stares back, those
dark eyes all over me.
The timer goes off from the kitchen, startling us both. Rhys excuses himself to check on whatever he's cooking, leaving me
alone with the warmth of the wine spreading through my chest.
Or maybe it’s this growing, scary feeling taking root.
When Rhys returns, he carries a stew pan, steam curling from the thick broth. He sets it close by and fills two soup bowls
with a hearty stew that smells amazing.
When he looks up, his brow is furrowed apologetically.
"Sorry, it's nothing fancy. We always cooked simple meals in my family."
"I don’t care for fancy." Leaning, I taste the stew. The warmth spreads with the wine. I hum. It’s thick, the flavors rich, and
the meat tender. "Wow, Rhys. This is delicious."
He smiles in relief as he takes his place again. "Did your family cook meals like this?" he asks. “Or did you learn to bake
cakes by yourself?”
He’s talking about family again? How odd when he avoided the subject so directly.
I clear my throat, shrugging off the hesitation. "My mom did, before she passed away. After that, well..." I force a laugh to
keep the mood light. "Let's just say culinary skills weren't high on my father's list of priorities."
Rhys's expression softens. “And what was?”
“His job. Or anything that could help with his job.” I laugh again. “He only listens to me when I’m talking about his work,
so I try to sprinkle it in when I need him to pay attention.”
Rhys’s brows drop over his eyes. “Why are you laughing about this, Amelia? This is awful.”
Warmth floods into my face. I swallow a mouthful of hot stew. “I think I just don’t want the subject to get too heavy. Sorry
about that.”
His hand shoots out, but it stops inches from mine. “Don’t apologize. If someone doesn’t want to listen to your troubles,
they don’t deserve you.”
My heart melts. “Thanks, Rhys.” I cross the last inch and brush our fingertips together.
“Don’t let anyone make you feel less than worthy, Amelia. You’re good. You have a good heart.” His rough hand covers
mine, sending tiny shards of electricity up my arm. “Much less a person like Edgar. He doesn’t deserve your goodness.”
And I float so hard in his voice, my heart so full, that I almost miss a word. I almost miss it.
How does Rhys know my father’s name?
 RHYS

T he glow of the late afternoon sun filters through the tall aspens, casting dappled shadows on the walls. I sit on the worn
sofa, a cup of coffee in hand. I bring it to my lips, but it’s lukewarm.
Wow. It’s the second cup today that goes to waste. I’m so lost in thought that I keep forgetting to drink the damn
coffee.
Amelia is a constant presence in the back of my mind. Ever present. Ever tugging. A part of me I didn’t even know existed
is crazy about her.
My entire being is obsessed with her. To hell that she’s Frost’s daughter, that she’s so much younger, and that we’re from
opposite sides of the track.
It’s like I’ve been living in the dark, stuck in the same thoughts of vengeance and hatred for too long. Until she came in, all
light to the darkness inside me.
A knock shatters the silence. I straighten up, my brows raising. Strange. It sounded distant, not from the front door.
Frowning, I get to my feet and stride to the entrance anyway, opening the door to find the porch empty.
Another knock. Yes, it’s coming from the back of the house. My pulse quickens and my muscles tense as I rush over
hardwood floors to the back of the house.
In the kitchen, the knocking persists, rhythmic and insistent. I navigate the space as the sun sets, turning the room orange.
To the very back of the kitchen, around a discreet corner near the pantry, there’s another door. I remember the real estate
agent mentioning it, yes, but apparently it led nowhere.
I unlock it and wrench it open. Haloed by the setting sun is Amelia, an angel walking out of my daydreams.
She stands before me, her light brown eyes wide. Her auburn hair is pulled into a high ponytail, tendrils escaping to frame
her flushed cheeks. She’s clad in workout clothes that cling to her full curves—the sight of her like this ignites a fire in my
veins, a primal response that I struggle to contain.
I release a breath. I’m wearing gray sweatpants, the worst kind if I want to hide a hard-on.
“Amelia?”
“Surprised?” Her lips curve upward, a smirk playing at the edges.
“I didn’t know anyone could get back here.” I step outside, peeking at the sides, searching the bushes. “Where did you
come from?”
“Follow me.” She turns on her heel, and I’m compelled to shadow her movements.
We weave through the foliage, but my gaze falls on a beaten path. Tall grasses sway, reaching out to touch her as if even
they cannot resist. The path winds around the house amid the foliage, hidden from view.
“I remembered this secret path,” she tosses over her shoulder, the nostalgia in her tone softening the chill in the air. “The
man who lived in your house was a friend of my family’s, so I guess this path was used to avoid going around the lake.”
“Never knew it existed.” I watch her navigate the terrain with familiarity. She pauses at a crossroads and points to our
right.
“This will lead to the open field behind us. You can get there using the main road, too. It’s just longer.” She points forward.
“This will lead to my house.” Finally, she starts down the path to the left. “This will end in front of your house, if I’m not
mistaken. Funny, isn’t it? Why are there two paths to the house?” She chuckles.
I’m too intoxicated by her laughter and the sight of her round ass clad in leggings to think of an answer. I follow her until
we leave the woods, stepping through the tall foliage into my front yard.
“There.” She ambles closer to my car, turning around to look at me. “I was walking around the field and I remembered the
path, so I thought I could show it to you.” A shrug. “You know, in good faith.” Her cheeks go pink. “I thought last night ended on
a weird note.” She pauses, glancing up at me with those deep brown eyes. “I wanted to clear the air.”
Something tightens in my chest as I look at her. It did end strangely. She closed off when we were talking about her father.
Maybe that spot is too soft. “Agreed.”
I take a step closer to her and she leans back, resting against my car. Amelia tilts her chin up, her face catching the light. My
gaze traces the curve of her neck and it’s then I see it.
When the sun hits her like this, I see stars peppering her nose. She has freckles scattered across her cheeks and her parted
lips glisten in the sunlight. It’s like something deep inside me changes, clicks, or moves. I don’t know.
All I know is that I can’t stay away from her.
“I can’t stop thinking about this smart mouth of yours.” It slips out, unguarded. My eyes meet hers and I lose myself in the
depths of her gaze, forgetting for a moment who she is supposed to be and what she represents. All I can see is Amelia.
The woman with the heart of gold, the bright smile, and the warm laugh.
Her lips curl up in a smile. “Is that so?” she replies in that sweet voice. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you, either.
Even if you’re a little annoying.”
I grin, stepping closer and pressing my hands to the car behind her, caging her in. Her eyes sparkle.
“You don’t need to flirt with me, Red,” I whisper, my fingers tangling through copper strands. “I already want to kiss you.”
She tilts her chin up. “What’s taking you so long, then?” Her voice is breathy, sexy.
I lean down and kiss her, claiming that smart mouth, drinking from her sweet taste.
A flush of desire rushes through me, igniting every nerve-ending. My grip tightens in her hair, eliciting a whimper from her
that sends a jolt of electricity down my spine. Every little touch makes me harder.
Her arms snake around my neck, pulling me closer, and our bodies press together with scorching intensity. Her soft curves
mold against my hard lines, and her sweet scent sends my head spinning.
I could live like this. I could die like this, wrapped in her arms.
As certain as the setting of the sun, I know it. I know I’m in love with her. Even if this bliss cannot last.
 A M E LI A

T he night sky stretches out above us, with more stars twinkling at me than I ever imagined. I cuddle closer to Rhys,
soaking up his warmth under the covers. His truck bed is hard even with the duvets, and even if we had warm days,
tonight is cold.
The open field has no trees to break the evening breeze, but it’s the perfect place to stargaze. I can’t help but revel in the
freedom of it all—away from the courtroom, office, and the weight of Dad’s expectations.
“Thanks for this,” I murmur into the cover. “I’m surprised you remembered.” A shiver runs down my body.
Rhys puts an arm behind my head and tucks me against him. I sigh in contentment. This feels so right.
When I look up, Rhys’s black eyes are fixed on me rather than the thousands of stars above. It’s a look that makes
everything else fade into insignificance. Even the universe.
Rugged hands trace constellations on my arm. His touch ignites trails of fire even through the fabric, a heat that pales
compared to what’s simmering inside me. It’s a longing, an unspoken plea etched in every heartbeat that races in his proximity.
Rhys brushes a finger down my cheek. “Your standards are too low, Red. Of course I remember. I remember everything you
say.”
“Do you?” I smile, propping my chin on his shoulder. “Why?”
“Because you’re special. You’re good. You’re so bright, I can’t look away.”
Heat kisses my cheeks. “I never took you for a poet.”
“I’m not. I’m saying what I see.” His voice is husky, a low rumble against the quiet night. He cocks his head, studying my
face. “Why does it feel like you’re surprised to hear that?”
I chuckle. “Because I am. No one’s ever told me those things.”
“No one?”
I shake my head. There was never much time for dating, and Dad never let me hang out with the few friends I have.
When I stop to think about it, I’m very lonely. Most days, I work so much that I almost forget it.
Rhys buries his hand into my hair. “Then I will repeat it to you every day until you believe it.” He lowers his mouth to my
ear, a shiver racing down my spine. “You’re stunning. You have the prettiest smile, the brightest eyes, and the most beautiful
body I’ve ever seen.”
Warmth spreads through my chest toward my limbs. I pull back to meet his gaze in the darkness, my eyes adjusting enough
that I can see him. I tilt my chin up, asking wordlessly for what I need the most.
Our lips collide and my skin buzzes with the contact. My fingers tangle in his short, wavy hair, drawing him closer, deeper.
The world contracts until there’s nothing but Rhys’s smoky taste.
Every sweep of his tongue is pure sex. Rhys has to do absolutely nothing and I’m already growing slick. With one kiss, he
has me shivering with need.
I push a hand down his hard chest and around his waist to his hip. Parting my legs, I fit his thigh between mine. Heat grows
deep inside me.
Rhys lowers his hand to my hip, too, and his thumb plays with the hem of my shirt for too long. Every time his thumb grazes
my skin, I moan. That’s how needy he makes me.
This is all I wanted. Stargazing and making out with a hot older man who makes me feel beautiful and sexy? That’s so much
better than my wildest dreams about this vacation.
Rhys slips his hand up under my shirt, his fingers tracing my waist and up my rib cage. I arch my back, offering myself as
my nipples tighten in expectation. Rhys caresses the sensitive skin under my bra. Again. Again.
My breath hitches, emboldened by desire.
“God, what a tease,” I say, trying to sound annoyed, but my voice comes out so sultry I almost don’t recognize it.
Rhys laughs into my neck, his stubble grazing my neck and pebbling my skin. “Apologies,” he breathes out. Even his breath
makes me wet. “What do you want me to do, Red?”
And to think I used to hate the nickname. When he’s the one saying it, it sounds so sexy.
 My hand captures his, pressing it against the curve of my breast. It’s a silent message, a speechless plea.
And he gives me exactly what I want.
Rhys fondles my breast, kneading at it, his thumb playing with the hard nipple over my bra. I moan, pinpricks of sensation
rushing over my body. My eyelids fall closed as I savor the feeling.
“Fuck. You’ll have me obsessed with these little sounds you make.”
I meet his eyes again, my lips parting as another whimper leaves me. Rhys’s eyes are so bright with desire that it would be
impossible to miss them. He kisses me again, harder, his tongue reaching deeper.
His fingers trail down my waist and dance along the waistband of my sweatpants. Once more, every brush of his hands
makes me clench. I whimper with need.
“Shh. Let me take care of you,” he whispers into my ear.
Rhys palms me between my thighs, teasing me through the fabric. My comfy pants feel like an insurmountable barrier, too
thick for me to feel properly.
“More,” I plead, shamelessly craving his touch. There’s a raw need in my voice, one that mirrors the hunger in his gaze.
A shiver courses through me as he obliges, his hand venturing past the waistband. My pulse skyrockets, charting the
crescendo of sensation that threatens to consume me whole.
Rhys’s teeth scrape against my lips as his tongue dives back into my mouth, his fingers sinking into the soft skin of my inner
thigh, his thumb tracing down my covered slit.
I gasp into the kiss, lightheaded from the rush of sensation. My whole body tingles as if it’s on fire, every nerve ending
alight with desire.
His lips trail down my neck, leaving a line of burning kisses that makes me squirm beneath him. He groans low in his
throat, and the vibration travels straight to my core.
Rhys grunts when he presses his fingers against my panties and finds them soaked. His cock jumps against my thigh. I cling
to him, desperate for more.
“Please,” I gasp, the word a sigh against his lips.
Rhys obliges, shoving his big hand into my panties and finding the pulsing center of my need. I’m so swollen, it’s almost
painful. He parts my pussy lips, gathers my wetness, and massages my clit.
I come apart almost instantly.
I moan, bucking into his hand, white lights popping behind my lids. A scream rises in my throat and I don’t have the time to
bite it back. Pleasure rocks through my body. Every nerve-ending burn, set alight by him.
“Fuck, you come so good on my fingers,” he grunts against my ear. I try to beg for more, but I can only grunt and whimper.
Rhys feels my need. His fingers delve deeper, the middle one rubbing at my entrance as his thumb circles around my clit.
My body jerks with aftershocks, but I need more. I move against him, seeking another climax as his middle finger pushes into
my core.
“That’s it, Red. Show me what you want. Show me how to make you feel good.” His breath is warm against my neck, and I
arch into him, lost in the sensation of being the sole focus of his attention.
My world narrows down to the spot where his fingers work their magic, coaxing moans from my lips. He finds a pace that
has me chasing the stars, grasping at the edges of the truck bed for grounding as everything else falls away.
Rhys takes me high, and a second orgasm crashes over me. My body convulses, clenching, releasing. Rhys’s middle finger
pushes into me again. I wince. He’s so thick. Even one finger is so thick.
“God, you’re tight,” he murmurs, massaging my clit until my inner walls relax. Rhys pushes the first knuckle inside me, and
I moan at the sheer pleasure.
I feel so good, I almost forgot.
“Rhys. I’m—I’ve never—” The confession tumbles out in a rush. “It’s my first time,” I whisper. “But I want it. I want it so
bad.”
Rhys stills, his body tensing as if the words are a bucket of ice water thrown over the moment. He stays in my arms for
another heartbeat, but I know I lost him. My heart knows. It squeezes inside my chest.
He withdraws his hand, leaving a cold void where warmth once burned. His fingers graze my clit on the way out, and I
tremble with desire. But as I blink up at him, his dark eyes now seem miles away.
Oh, no. Did I ruin it? Shouldn’t I have said it? My pulse spikes as I search for something, anything, to say to keep him with
me.
I intertwine our fingers together, my slick still coating his fingertips. It takes everything in me, but I manage a small, teasing
smile. “Take me home. Please.”
 RHYS

T he engine’s purr dies; the night wraps around us with indifferent cold. Her porch lights cast an amber glow on Amelia’s
auburn hair, strands tangled from my fingers.
The taste of her is still on my lips. The sound of her little whimpers will forever follow me.
But, after all, this is just a dream. I can’t touch someone as pure as her.
She’s literally a virgin. How could I, a man who’s been lying to her since the first day, be her first?
Amelia jumps out of my truck. I follow her out, meeting her near the taillights. She tucks her hair behind an ear.
“Thank you,” she breathes, her voice still sultry. She leans back on the car, the lights showing off her full curves. “Come
inside? It’s a bit chilly.” Her eyes are half-moons—a pull too strong for any sane man to resist.
My gaze drops to her thin shirt, her pebbled nipples begging for my touch. For my mouth, my tongue, and my fingers. Fuck.
I’d spend the night beating off to the memory of her, and I’d still not get over it.
I shove my hands into the pockets of my leather jacket to keep them away from Amelia’s body. “I can’t. We shouldn’t,
Red.” And I hope she can see the honesty in my eyes. “You’re too young for me. I can’t do that to you.”
She tilts her lips in a hesitant smile. “Afraid you’ll ruin me?”
She has no idea.
Her eyes grow serious. “Rhys.” The way she says my name breaks me. “I don’t know why I said it. Maybe I shouldn’t
have. But I really want⁠—”
She reaches out. I take a step back. Her hands on me would be my doom.
Her eyebrows press together in rejection. Fuck. Shit. I hate what I’m doing to her. I hate that I’ve been lying from the
beginning and that I’ve hurt her again and again.
“I can’t, Amelia. You’re stunning, but you’re too young. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Then don’t.”
“It’s not that simple. You know that. I’m too old for you. It’s one thing to fool around during vacation, but I don’t want you
to make choices that might hurt you in the future. Not because of me.”
Amelia chews on her lower lip, the act innocent yet laden with an invitation I ache to accept. “Rhys. You’re making this
much more serious than it has to be. Can’t a girl just get her cherry popped?” Her cheeks go red even with her daunting words.
“We don’t need to get married for that.”
She makes it so difficult to walk away. “You deserve better, Amelia.”
“Let me be the one to decide that.”
I release a sigh, my shoulders slumping. She’s forced my walls down, and no matter how fast I try to put them back up, she
keeps chipping away at them.
“Why don’t you just come in?” She offers with those bright eyes. “No expectations.”
“I think that’s not…”
Something flashes across her eyes. As if she just had an idea. Amelia straightens up. “You know, I think you better spend
the night with me. I found out that the previous owner of your place died there. Maybe...” Her gaze dances over my face, a sly
grin playing at her lips. “...it’s haunted.”
“Is that so?” My heart stutters, betraying my nonchalance.
Shit. How did I miss that in my research? Unless it wasn’t public? I don’t know how the law changes between states for
that… Maybe the real estate agent kept it from me?
This piece of news is huge. It might change everything. A million what-ifs race through my mind.
Amelia’s eyes go sad. “It didn’t work, did it?”
I almost reach out to touch her face. Closing my hands into fists, I keep myself away. “Good night, Amelia. Thanks for the
warning.”
She pushes off my car, and I hate to see the disappointment on her face. It shatters my heart to know I caused it. “Good
night. Hit me if you get afraid.”
 I rush into my car, but I wait for her to get inside first. Once Amelia’s safely behind her locked doors, I start my car and
foot the gas.
The previous owner died. He was friends with Frost. Amelia used to come to the house when she was a child, and she
remembers the neighbor, so they had a friendly relationship, at least.
It’s still so strange. Such a coincidence for the man to have died here, next to Frost’s house. A feeling tugs inside me. My
heart races with expectation.
As I park outside my place, my gaze finds the entrance to Amelia’s secret path amid the woods. My stomach flips. Amelia
said the path has been here since she was a kid.
Could Frost have used the hidden way to reach this house? Could he have killed his friend?
But if he did... why?
 A M E LI A

S unset bleeds through the living room curtains as I stretch on the couch with my feet up. My e-reader lies forgotten over
my stomach as I peer through the space between the curtains, watching streaks of smoldering pink paint the orange sky.
The day dragged on with me trying to watch some movies, then trying to go through the case, and finally trying to
read. It feels like all I do is try—with my father, with Rhys, with my free time.
Rhys. I was so damn close yesterday. So close, not only to the last item on my list, but to something new and more special
than I’ve ever hoped for.
My fingertips trace my bottom lip. I can almost feel him against me. As if my body can’t forget him, even after that painful
rejection.
Well. Kind of rejection. Rhys clearly wants me back. No one ever made me feel that good. But he doesn’t want to cross a
line.
Lines. I’ve always been aware of rules, limits, and the right thing to do. But this? I don’t care it’s my first time, and I don’t
care we might never see each other again. I don’t care about the age difference. All I wanted was his body against mine, his
mouth bringing me pleasure...
A knock makes me jerk into awareness. I sit up, the e-reader dropping to my lap. My cheeks go warm as if I had been
caught doing something wrong.
I swing the front door open and meet Rhys’s eyes. It’s no surprise, since he’s the one neighbor in several miles. Even so,
my stomach swoops when I see him.
Rhys wears a flannel shirt and jeans, and he runs a hand through his hair as he twists his lips into a smile.
“Hey, Red.” A shiver races down my arms as if my body reacts to the sound of his voice.
“Hi, Rhys.” My voice is tiny. I rush my hands down my pants and pat my hair to make sure I’m presentable.
Rhys raises a reusable bag, heavy with grocery items, with the neck of a wine bottle visible over the opening. “I feel shitty
about yesterday. I’ve brought peace offerings.” His black eyes search mine, full of a feeling I can’t describe.
“Come in.”
A part of me wonders at his hot-and-cold attitude. I don’t wonder for long. He enters the house, leaving me in a cloud of his
male scent. All worries fly out of the window.
Rhys doesn’t wait for me as he spreads the grocery items on my kitchen island. He rolls his flannel shirt to his elbows,
exposing corded muscle. The kitchen comes alive with the clattering of pots and the warmth of the oven. I perch on the high
stool and watch him work.
“Do you like to cook?” I ask after leering at the way his back muscles move when he chops veggies.
Rhys sways his head from side to side. “I like to eat, so I have to cook. It’s the price.”
I release an unladylike snort. “So true.”
“Is this place like you remembered?”
Nodding, I glance at the living room, memories of me racing around the couch flashing in the back of my mind. “Yeah.
Pretty much.”
“You look like you have good memories.”
“I do. Life was simpler. My mom was alive.”
Rhys leaves something bubbling in a pan as he pours glasses of wine. “But it must have been a little lonely. With only your
parents. And the neighbor you mentioned.”
“It was... quiet. Lonely, sometimes. But Caleb—Caleb was always kind. Much more patient than my father, that’s for sure.”
I lean against the cool granite island, watching him.
At the mention of Caleb, Rhys’s shoulders hitch. Concern flickers within me. Oh, yes. Last night’s pathetic attempt to
convince Rhys to come in. I told him about Caleb dying in the house. My cheeks get hot with the memory.
“Sorry,” I breathe out. “About telling you yesterday. I didn’t mean to…” To what? I certainly meant to bring him inside.
“Don’t worry about it.” Rhys works on a second pan and flicks the stove off. “Apparently it’s not illegal to keep such
details from short-term tenants here.” He slides the pan into the oven and turns around to face me, his hands on his hips. “I bet
you’ve been feeling guilty, haven’t you?”
“A little.” I tuck my hair behind an ear. “Mostly a fool.”
He steps closer, the intensity in his eyes fierce enough to ignite the air between us. I gasp as Rhys slots his hand around my
jaw, his rough palm scratching along my skin.
“Don’t say that. You’re not a fool.”
I scoff, disbelieving. “Are you sure about that?”
He stares into my eyes, fitting his hips between my knees. Every step of his is full of hesitation. He wants to give in, but he
thinks he shouldn’t. Every muscle in his body is taut. “Absolutely. I’m struggling, too, Amelia.”
“With what?” I ask in a whisper.
His thumb brushes my lower lip. “With my feelings for you.”
My heart jumps in my chest. “Feelings?”
Rhys nods, leaning closer, his eyes fastening on my mouth as if he’s hypnotized. “Let me show you.”
Words are abandoned as his lips crash against mine, hungry, demanding, and taking my breath away. I’m swept up in the
kiss, flinging my arms around his shoulders, bringing him closer.
Rhys’s hands skim the sides of my body, grabbing onto my hips. He grunts against my mouth, and I feel his hardness twitch
against my stomach.
With a swift motion, he lifts me onto the island. I moan when he presses our bodies together, heat curling between my hips.
Rhys hooks his fingers around the waistband of my pants.
“Let me show you,” he repeats against my lips, every word burning.
I waste no time, bracing my weight on my hands and raising my hips. He pulls my pants down. The cool surface of the
island presses against my bare thighs. I’m not thinking. I can just feel.
The world narrows to the space where our bodies meet, with heat blossoming where his mouth touches. Rhys kisses my
eyes and my jaw, down my neck, and over my collarbones. He explores my body with a hunger that leaves no room for
anything but raw need.
Rhys kneels in front of me, his fingers around the waistband of my panties. I watch him in confusion as he spreads my knees
and buries his face between my thighs.
A gasp escapes me as his tongue teases, lapping at my covered slit. My wetness soaks the fabric until Rhys grunts with my
taste. He pulls my panties aside, curses under his breath at the sight of me, then devours me.
His tongue circles with a zeal that sends shivers down my spine. I lean back, moaning as my toes curl. My hands tangle in
his hair, urging him closer and deeper, each lap of his tongue a stroke of fire. Rhys laps and sucks, and then the tip of his tongue
draws lines over and around my clit, and every nerve ending pops.
My climax explodes inside me out of nowhere, with no warning. My hips buck into Rhys’s face and, instead of pulling
back, he keeps attacking my clit, dragging out the pleasure.
He shoots to his feet and kisses me again, his mouth tasting like me.
“Please,” I breathe against his slick lips. “Please, fuck me.”
And I think he’s going to ignore me again, but Rhys’s arms slip under my legs, and I wrap mine around his neck. He carries
me like a bride toward the bedrooms.
Rhys lays me down, and I watch him strip his flannel shirt, then the t-shirt underneath. The golden sunlight filters through
the window, highlighting his muscles and turning his skin bronze. My heart skips a beat.
I lower my gaze to his jeans as he kicks off his shoes. His cock is a hard line on his pants, but he keeps them on.
Rhys crawls onto the bed and kisses me again, his tongue swirling inside my mouth. I taste myself on him and shudder, my
hips moving to grind against his.
Pleasure blankets me as Rhys’s fingers trace my breasts under my shirt, circling my stiff nipples, then squeezing them. I
moan as his thumb flicks back and forth, my back arching off the bed.
My hands roam his body, and I feel the grooves of his abs, the smoothness of his chest, the strength of his muscles. I explore
his broad back, the hard shoulders flexing under my fingers.
Rhys’s mouth moves to my neck, then he pushes my shirt up and explores my breasts. He kisses and licks, bites and sucks,
and I can’t contain my moans. I rub against his cock again, then reach for his waistband.
I want to take this chance. I want him to fuck me. Slipping my fingers under his belt, I reach for his hardness. Rhys bucks
his hips once.
Then he stops.
His face is so close to mine, I can feel his breath on my lips. He grunts against my mouth, closing his eyes in frustration. My
heart jolts.
Not again.
Rhys presses his forehead against mine, taking deep breaths as if to rein himself in.
 “What’s wrong?” I ask, my voice a whisper.
Rhys’s eyes drill into mine, but I don’t understand what I see there. There’s affection, and there’s need, but there’s also pain
and apprehension… Why? Just because he’s older?
“I can’t do this,” he says, his voice low and hoarse as he sits back.
I feel a chill run down my spine, and a knot forms in my stomach. My instincts scream. I sit up, scooting away from him. A
second rejection hurts worse.
“Why?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. The distance between us feels like miles, but when Rhys stares at me, he
pins me to the spot.
Dread fills my gut. It’s the deep breath before the plunge. I’m painfully aware that something is awfully wrong.
“Because…” Rhys shakes his head. “I’m not who you think I am, Amelia.”
I press my knees together, narrowing my eyes at him. “What do you mean?”
Rhys releases a shaky breath. “There’s something you should know.”
 RHYS

I ’m the shittiest bastard to have ever lived. Regret makes each breath burn. I hate myself for lying to her and for sending
mixed signals over and over, but I hate myself even more for what I’m about to do.
I want Amelia. Every part of Amelia. I’m head over heels for her, and that’s why I must tell her. She has to know.
Once that’s out of the way, nothing is going to stop me. Frost was obviously not a good father, and if I have Amelia with me
on this, there’s nothing else I would need.
“Your father, Edgar Frost,” I start, and I take a breath. “He’s a villain, Amelia. That’s why I’ve tried to keep my distance
from you.”
Amelia sits up, arms crossed defensively. Her light brown eyes reflect the dying light as she frowns. “What are you talking
about, Rhys? A villain?”
“Frost,” I say, the name like ash on my tongue, “has been playing god with people’s lives. For many years now. He’s
worked slowly, but surely. That’s how he makes money—taking advantage of others. Manipulating prices, then buying out
people’s homes for cheap. Crushing their livelihoods to trap them. He’s been destroying the neighborhood I was born in for
years now.”
Amelia’s brows shoot high. “You’re saying my father is, what, gentrifying your neighborhood?”
“Exactly.”
Disbelief tightens her features. She looks away, into the golden aspens outside. “What does that have to do with me? With
you being here?”
There it goes. My heart thunders with fear at her reaction, but I must. “I rented the house, hoping I would have access to this
one.”
Her jaw drops. “You rented the house next door... to spy on my father?”
“You don’t understand, Amelia.”
“Clearly.”
“Your father has been scheming for too long. He has politicians in his back pocket. All the things he does to buy those
buildings for cheap are questionable, but because he has friends in the right places, he suffers no consequence.”
“So, your solution is to break into the house, and if that doesn’t work, to seduce his daughter?”
“No. You were not part of the plan.” At the beginning, I might have told myself I could use her, but I never managed. I never
had the guts.
“Oh, so this hot-and-cold treatment of yours isn’t because you’re feeling guilty?”
Shit. I have to get her to see it. She has to see it, or both our relationship and my plans are doomed.
“Amelia. You can look it up online. Nothing’s a secret. Your father bought out the buildings with the food bank and the
childcare center first. Then the small businesses, especially those with debt. Then the rent prices hiked up, but only in our
neighborhood. After your father announced the first buildings, the cops started making rounds, saying the neighborhood is
dangerous and that we, as immigrants, don’t belong there.” I bare my teeth, closing my hands in fists to keep myself from
touching her. “Amelia, my family has been there for decades. Our families built those buildings, and no one can afford their
own homes anymore.”
Amelia shoots to her feet and finds a new pair of pants. “You are describing gentrification. It is a real problem.” Her breath
comes in ragged pulls as she paces. “My father is... he is building a mall in a suburban area.” My heart swells with hope, but
she shakes her head. “But that’s not enough proof. How can I know this was on purpose?” Another shake of her head. “This
would never hold in court, Rhys. Especially if you broke into the house. You know that.”
I can see her walking the tightrope, swaying between my truth and her father’s. I need more.
Sitting on the edge of the mattress, I turn to face her. “I know. I need more proof—maybe a different way to get to your
father. A different crime he might have committed.”
“Like Al Capone and tax evasion. Right.” She chews on her thumbnail. “My father is... he’s ambitious, yes. Greedy, even.
But that’s not a crime. Falsifying financial statements is. Money laundering. Fraud. Those things are usually connected, but it
would be hard to create a case out of nothing. My father has had this company for over twenty years and nothing has ever
happened.”
I take a beat so her eyes meet mine. “Amelia. Your father is not just a corrupt bastard but… he’s a murderer too.”
A flicker of shock, then hurt clouds her face. The weight of my accusation fractures her composure. “What?”
I motion for the house across the lake, visible through the window. “Caleb Bloom was your father’s partner. You showed
me the hidden path between the houses. Your father could very well have gone into the house, killed Bloom, and then left. If
anyone accused him, he had the money to bribe the police.”
“You think my father killed Caleb?” Her voice breaks on the impossible thought. “But why? They were friends.”
That’s where my timeline fails. I’ve spent too long thinking about her and not long enough searching for clues. “That, I don’t
know,” I admit. “Still working on that.”
“Did the company pass to my father after Caleb died?”
I take a beat. That thought had crossed my mind, but I have to shake my head. “No. There’s a council and a representative in
the name of Caleb’s siblings.”
She shakes her head, her dark auburn hair catching the last light. Denial is etched deep into her expression. Doubt. “No,
you’re wrong. You have to be.” She shakes her head again. “There are too many holes. And you haven’t even glossed over the
fact that you wanted to break in and that you used me.” She scoffs, her eyes shining with pain. “Why didn’t you tell me
sooner?”
“Would you have listened?” The question hangs between us, heavy and fraught with regret.
“God, how could I have been so blind?” Anguish twists her features. I let Amelia digest it as she paces back and forth.
Amelia halts by the door. She takes a deep breath, pulling her shoulders back.
She starts out of the room. I shoot to my feet, grabbing my boots and shirt as I follow her.
“Where are you going?” I ask as she makes a beeline to the living room.
“I need my phone. I have to confront my father.”
Her words are a bucket of cold water. And I thought we were so close. “You can’t do that,” I say, rushing to stand in front
of her. “It’ll ruin everything I’ve been working for.”
Amelia shoots me a fiery gaze that should not make my cock hard. “This is up for me to decide.”
“No, it isn’t.” I grab her wrist. “Amelia. You’ll ruin everything.”
She glares at me and tugs her arm free. “You’ve already done that.”
My heart shatters. But I can’t give up now.
She reaches out for her phone. Her fingers brush it for a second before I pull her away. I pick her up in a firefighter hold,
locking my arm behind her knees.
Amelia cries out. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Shit. I like it when she curses. She slams her fists against my back, but she’s much smaller than me. Besides, I deserve any
pain she might inflict after what I’ve done to her.
I whirl around and stride to the kitchen. A glance toward the oven timer tells me I have forty minutes to pick up the food.
It’s enough time to go home and come back. I adjust Amelia in my hold as I go for the back door and rush into the hidden path.
“Sorry, Red,” I say as she screams for help. A useless attempt in a place like this. “I’ll do anything to stop your father. And
I do mean anything.”
 A M E LI A

I bolt for the door the second it cracks open, but Rhys is faster; his arms are steel traps as he catches me mid-escape. A
frustrated grunt leaves my lips when my stomach hits his shoulder. Anger rushes through my blood, erasing any kind of
fear.
Rhys holds me with an ease that leaves my heart thundering against my rib cage. He kicks the door shut and throws me onto
the mattress. My body bounces as I glare at him.
“Let me go.”
Shadows cast long lines across his pained expression. His lips tilt downward. “Amelia, you know I can’t do that. You have
to listen—” His voice is gravel, pleading.
“Listen? You think you can just lock me up and expect what—gratitude? You really think you can convince me now?” I sit
up, eyeing the door, but he barricades the exit with his bulky frame.
Rhys threw too many facts my way in a short time—the gentrification, my father’s involvement, his possible corruption, and
finally, how Rhys used me.
My heart shattered the moment I understood. But I can’t glue the parts back together now. I have other priorities.
After all, the man I fell in love with has just kidnapped me.
He threw me over his shoulder like a caveman, and he dragged me into his house without flinching from my punches. He’s
kept me locked inside this empty bedroom for the past few hours.
It all makes sense now. The reason he didn’t decorate the house. This guest room is as bare as the living room. Rhys never
meant to stay here. He was only using the house to search for proof.
He cocks his head, and the pain in his eyes almost moves me. “Amelia. Your father⁠—”
“Had no reason to hurt Caleb!” I hiss, shooting to my feet to glare at him. It’s a poor attempt, with our size difference. Even
so, I don’t back down. “They were partners, friends. Caleb’s murder was a tragedy. The police ruled it a robbery, Rhys. Your
conspiracy theories won’t stick outside of these walls.”
He runs a hand through his inky hair. “Give me a chance to dig deeper.” His eyes, usually so guarded, now plead for
understanding. “The police didn’t know about the hidden path, did they? And even if they did, your father was already rich
enough to escape conviction.”
My laugh is bitter, humorless. “You used me, Rhys. To get to my father. And you have the audacity to ask for a chance.”
“Amelia, I promise⁠—”
“What was I then? Collateral damage?”
He stares at me, the longing unmistakable. Or is it? Or is he pretending, as he’s been doing since we met?
“Get out.” My voice is ice, my stance unwavering. “I don’t want to see you. Either get out or let me leave.”
His jaw clenches hard. He takes a deep breath, then steps back toward the door. “Fine. I’ll bring you food and water later.
You have the ensuite bathroom at your disposal.” He grabs the doorknob so hard that I hear the metal creek. “I’ll save you the
trouble. The glass in the windows is double-glazed. Everything is locked. There’s nothing you could use in the bathroom to
escape or attack me.” His voice lowers to gravel. “You still have a week before your father needs you. And I’ve seen in your
messages that he hasn’t sent you anything in days. You and I both know he won’t miss you so soon, Amelia.”
I scoff, pulling my upper lip in disgust. “Is that your new tactic? Reminding me both you and my father only seek me
because you need me?”
He doesn’t reply. He stares at me for another beat. “I will prove it to you, Amelia. Or you’re staying locked until I’m
certain your father will never hurt another person.”
 A M E LI A

S unlight blinds me when I wake up. After trying the windows and the door and searching through the closet and the
bathroom, I fell into an exhausted sleep without closing the blinds. Only then did my mind stop racing with hurt, regret,
and so, so many questions.
I cover my eyes, wincing at the light. The sun rises behind the aspens. It’s later than I usually get up. That’s how exhausted I
was.
What even woke me up? The sun?
The doorknob turns with a soft creak. The mouth-watering scent of Rhys invades the room as he opens the door. I sit up,
alarm tightening my muscles.
Rhys stands in the doorway, the sunlight deepening the shadows under his eyes. He’s still in his jeans and flannel shirt,
almost as if he hadn’t slept.
A flash of fear burns inside me, but it’s short-lived. Did he enter the room after I fell asleep? But what would he have
done? The man is so intent on not fucking me, I know there’s nothing to fear.
Rhys closes the door and meets my gaze. He carries a thermos bottle in one hand, the ones for camping, with the lid that
works as a cup. On his other hand, he has a plastic container with a spoon, scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. A black shirt is
thrown over his shoulder.
“Breakfast,” he says in a raspy voice, setting the thermos and container on the nightstand. “And a shirt if you want to
shower.” The shirt goes over the pillow.
I narrow my eyes at him. “So, I don’t even deserve plates.”
He straightens his spine, pausing a hand at his hip. “Something tells me you wouldn’t waste a second to transform a plate
into a weapon.”
He’s right. That’s exactly what I wanted to do. Porcelain can shatter into sharp pieces.
I’m just not sure if I’d use the weapon.
“And I thought you would starve me into submission.” I don’t bother trying to hide the acid in my tone.
“Figured you’d be hungry.” He crosses his arms, his muscles taut beneath the flannel.
“Guess again.” My stomach betrays me with a traitorous growl. I remember missing dinner yesterday. Warmth floods into
my face.
“Stubborn,” he says with a sigh.
I get to my feet, running my fingers through my hair. “How can I be sure you will not poison me?”
Shock flashes across his features. “First, I would never do that. Second, that would give me nothing. Third, I could have
done it before if I wanted to.”
He could. I ate his bread, his wine, and his stew.
I refuse to admit to it. “Yeah, whatever you tell yourself to sleep at night.”
“Amelia...” He starts, but I cut him off.
“Is this your first time kidnapping people, Rhys? It’s not very good.”
His jaw clenches, and something flickers in his black eyes. “You know this is a desperate measure. I didn’t mean to hurt
you.”
“Oh, so you thought pretending you were interested in me, attracted to me, would not hurt me?” The audacity. I almost foam
at the mouth when I glare at him. How dare he say this so nonchalantly?
“I pretended nothing,” he says, stepping closer, his eyes never leaving my face.
“Right. Because you had no reason to do that either.” I scoff, but my laugh sounds hollow, even to my own ears.
“Amelia—” His voice cracks like a whip, sharp, commanding.
“Save it,” I snap, shoulders tensed for a fight. “I have no interest in more lies.” And I step sideways, aiming for the door.
I’m not even sure if he left it unlocked. My mind races, and I need to leave. I need to get away from him.
“Listen to me, Amelia! Fuck, why don’t you just listen?” His hand shoots out, gripping my elbow and pulling me toward
him.
I stumble back. “Let go!” I struggle, but his fingers are iron bands.
“Can’t you see this is not about faking my feelings?” he hisses, his eyes searching mine. “It’s exactly because of what I feel
I tried to tell you!”
“I don’t want to hear this.”
Rhys grabs both my arms, manhandling me until my chest hits his stomach. “Amelia. Please, understand. My feelings were
real. They are real. But I can’t let you ruin the entire plan! There are too many people depending on it!”
I stand on my tiptoes so I can glare at him better, something dark curling inside my stomach. “Your words mean nothing to
me.”
Hurt flashes across his eyes, but it’s soon supplanted by hard conviction. “Then I’ll show it to you.”
His lips are on mine, fierce, insistent, stealing away any protest. I shove against his chest, but it’s like pushing against a
mountain. The kiss breaks for one second, as if Rhys wants to give me a chance to escape. I’m so dazed by his heat, his scent,
that I don’t move.
My body hums, desire and anger mixing and flooding my veins. I remember too late I shouldn’t be rubbing my hands up his
chest, and I shouldn’t be moaning into his mouth. Shock rushes through me and I pull back, turning my face away.
Rhys leans, aiming for my mouth again. I move away and we tumble backward, the world tilting as I land on the bed. Then
Rhys is over me, his hands pinning me down, his scent intoxicating me.
And I hate to admit it—but he’s got a convincing argument.
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