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  “Will it suit?” he asked, as if I could possibly say no.

  “Yes, thank you. You’ve been very generous.”

  He nodded and for a moment we just stared at each other, heat building between us. I wanted to talk to him, lay some groundwork for the author-editor relationship that had gotten off to a rocky start thus far, but I was exhausted and flustered by my physical reaction to his nearness, and I didn’t know what to say.

  “You should have everything you need,” he finally said. “Good night.”

  He left, and I sank onto the bed, trying not to feel like I’d failed as I took in the rest of the room.

  The door to an en suite bathroom was open, revealing a claw-foot tub that I couldn’t wait to take a long, hot soak in. A fluffy white robe and some plush towels lay at the foot of the bed. There was also a club sandwich, an orange, and a bottle of water set out thoughtfully on the night table, though I wasn’t sure I was hungry enough to eat again.

  Something clicked, and I realized that he must have spent at least some time during the last few hours preparing this room for me. Maybe he wasn’t such a bear after all.

  I went into the bathroom and filled the tub. There were some scented oils on a shelf and I selected one, sprinkling a few drops into the steaming water. Then I stripped and lowered my aching limbs into the tub, a low moan escaping my lips as the warmth enveloped my body.

  I’ve always loved baths. Sadly, my small apartment in New York only has room for a shower. This was bliss. As I lay there, feeling my muscles relax, I tried not to think back to the sexy phone call I’d had with Jackson just days before. Tried not to pinch my hardening nipples, tried not to slide a hand over my breasts, across my belly, down to the needy tightness between my legs. I pumped my fingers back and forth inside me, exhaling in soft, fast breaths, coming in seconds with the image of Jackson Ford thrusting hard and desperate inside me.

  Oh my God. What was I doing? Maybe it was the wine, I tried to rationalize. Maybe it was for the best—getting out those inconvenient lusty urges before facing Ford the next morning. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t happen again. I just needed a good night’s sleep, that was all. I quickly washed my hair, soaped and rinsed myself off, and drained the water. When I emerged from the tub, I felt restored.

  I pulled on my pajamas, slipped between the cool, smooth sheets, and fell asleep almost immediately.

  10

  When I awoke the following morning, initial disorientation yielded to pleasure. I slid out of the bed, my feet relishing the softness of the rug beneath. My body felt good. Well rested. So far removed from my usual frantic rush to get up, get ready, find my Metro card, juggle my laptop and my tights and a microwavable breakfast burrito as I flew out the door for work.

  I went to the window and pulled open the curtains, revealing a glorious mountain vista and dramatic accumulation of snow glistening in the morning light. It looked like a postcard, and I breathed in deeply, taking in all the beauty.

  I had no idea what time it was. I checked my cell, gasping when I saw the numbers. I had slept until 9:30! Normally I’d be hunched over a manuscript at my desk by now, an empty cup of tea at my elbow and a fresh to-do list from Carolyn in my inbox.

  I quickly dressed in my jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and a soft fisherman’s sweater the color of ripe plums. I realized I hadn’t brought anything to deal with my hair, so I rubbed a couple of drops of the scented oil from the bathroom between my palms and massaged it through my hair, taming it a bit. Then I whispered, “Get it, girl,” to myself and opened the door.

  As I stepped out into the hallway, I saw a note on the floor. It read: “Working. There’s food in the kitchen.”

  Well then. The tone was a little off-putting, but I felt encouraged that Ford was working, and that he’d decided he respected me enough to let me know what he was up to. And I was hungry (as usual), so I went down the stairs, back to the gorgeous kitchen I’d enjoyed so much the night before.

  It was even lovelier in daylight. I noticed details I’d missed last night in my fugue of low blood sugar and road-fatigue. Gleaming copper pots hung from a rack above the island, the rack itself a work of art fashioned from brass into the shape of entwined branches. The stove was a forest green enameled Viking model, and a polished wooden bowl on the counter brimmed with oranges, apples, and red and green pears. Every item was a feast for the eyes.

  An Italian espresso pot sat on the stove and the smell of freshly ground coffee perfumed the air. Nearby I found a canister of Fortnum & Mason loose tea and some strainers. My heart leapt at the sight. Earl Grey! I took a pot down from the rack, filled it with water and made myself a cup of tea. I rifled through the cabinets until I located a jar of organic local honey, a piece of the comb floating within, and added this to the tea along with a splash of milk. I held the cup under my nose and inhaled the citrusy scent of bergamot and spice before taking a sip. It was perfect.

  I set myself up at the island again and popped open a pink bakery box filled with fresh muffins and pastries. I ate two pastries (one chocolate croissant and one pear tart, because why force myself to agonize between the two?) and drank my tea, cleaning everything up when I was done. With nothing to do but wait for Ford to take a break, I returned to the guest bedroom and retrieved one of the manuscripts I’d packed. Then I went back down to the living room to read.

  As I entered, I saw what the darkness of the previous evening had concealed. Through each of the many-paned glass doors that opened onto the deck, the same stunning mountain view I’d seen from my guest room was visible. I stood transfixed until I heard the logs in his fireplace shift and realized the flames were dying out. I added more wood. Soon I had the fire roaring.

  I curled up in a well-worn leather chair and started to read, red pen in hand. I could not have been more cozy. Three hours later, a good portion of my work complete, I made a decision. No more waiting. I at least had to know where we stood, where the draft stood, how soon I could reasonably expect to get those pages. I got up, stretched my legs, and went in search of Ford.

  He was absent from the first floor, where I discovered a private screening room in addition to the kitchen, dining room and living room. So I went to the stairs and called up. There was no response. I mounted the staircase.

  Once on the second floor, I counted four doors in addition to the one to the guest bedroom. All of them were closed. I chose one, randomly, and knocked. No response. I opened the door to reveal a glorious library with dark wood paneling, built-in shelves floor to ceiling, and two low sofas around a table in the center.

  “Do you mind not snooping around my house?” Ford’s booming voice came from behind me. I jumped and turned around, forcing a friendly smile.

  “I wasn’t snooping, I was looking for you.”

  “I told you, I’m working,” he said, his voice flat, his gaze steely. “Isn’t that what you want from me? Now run along.” He waved his hand, gesturing me off.

  For a moment, the room went dead silent as I clenched my jaw and fought back the urge to march right up to him and smack him across the face for talking to me like that. But I was a mature, responsible, working adult. And I could certainly handle one temperamental, brilliant, infuriating writer.

  Even one as distractingly sexy as Jackson Ford.

  “Listen, Jackson, as you and I both know, Louise sent me here. Your pages are late, which means you’re technically in breach of your contract, and DR is a little concerned. I’m not here to crack the whip—”

  “Pity,” he quipped, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, and I felt my cheeks heat.

  “—I’m just here to make sure you’re on track and then bring whatever pages you have back to Louise.”

  He turned and walked to his desk, settling in his chair and gazing at his laptop screen. I waited for a response, but he said nothing.

  “Are you just going to ignore me?” I asked. “I’m here, and I’m not leaving until I’m sure the book is heading in the right dir
ection, so can we please get past this and work together like two professional colleagues? I can help you, if you need—”

  His head snapped up. “I don’t need your help to write.”

  I nodded slowly, debating how to handle him, and took a step closer. “No, you probably don’t. But maybe you do need my help to write better.”

  He reacted with another smirk, but this one was nasty, as if I’d just said something completely idiotic. “You are an arrogant woman, Ellie Parker.”

  For a moment, my composure dropped, and so did my jaw. “Me?! You should talk!” I was livid, but I’d spoken without thinking. I clapped my hand over my mouth, but it was too late to take back my words.

  Jackson just stared at me like he was about to eat me.

  “When this weather clears, you leave. Do you understand?”

  “Fine. But I’m not leaving without those pages. And you will write them, or we will take legal action.” I crossed my arms. I was done playing nice.

  “I was just about to take a break, actually,” he said, stretching and yawning and clearly not intimidated. “So if you insist on continuing with the tough-guy charade and those cute little legal threats, you’ll have to do it on skis.”

  “Fine with me,” I seethed, keeping my voice even and cold. I refused to let him rile me up.

  He walked swiftly downstairs and I followed, my eyes glued to his fine ass only out of spite. In the foyer, he opened a closet containing multiple pairs of skis and cross-country attire of various sizes, probably for guests. Shit. He wasn’t being hyperbolic back in the library. He meant actual skis.

  “Have you ever been on these?” he asked, casually looking me up and down.

  “My father was from Minnesota. I practically grew up on skis,” I snapped back.

  “Let’s just hope you can keep up, then,” he smirked, a challenge in his eyes. And damn if I didn’t find that sexy as all hell.

  He tossed me some ski boots that seemed about my size and a pair of thick socks and sunscreen. Then he began dressing in his layers and jacket. I snapped on the boots and then put on my parka, pulling my mittens from my pocket.

  He suddenly put his hands on mine, stopping me with a penetrating glare, and said gruffly, “Use these instead,” before tossing me a pair of insulated gloves. Then he withdrew his own metal-edged skis and poles, and a second set of each for me. My stomach fluttered as I took them. Time to put my money where my mouth was.

  Once we got outside the door, he clicked into his bindings. He was more adept than I, since it had admittedly been a few years since I’d actually been able to get time off from work to go skiing, and he quickly headed off into the wooded land behind his home. I had something to prove and I was worried he’d leave me behind, so I scrambled to click in and get my bearings.

  Jackson was moving across the snow like a man on a mission, and though I wanted to catch up right away I was struck by the natural beauty all around me. The sun glinting off the frozen pond, the shimmering whiteness blanketing the trees, the majestic mountains above.

  It was blissfully quiet as I glided across the snow toward Jackson, noting with satisfaction that my body remembered exactly what to do. I heard only the slide of our skis, the crunch of our poles on the snow and my own heavy exhales, my warm breath condensing into clouds in the chilly morning air. Soon I established a rhythm, my thoughts disappearing as the movements of my body and the bite of the crisp air took precedence. Without realizing how fast I’d been going, I suddenly found myself at his side.

  “It’s really gorgeous out here,” I said to him in between breaths. “You must love it.”

  “Clears my head,” he answered.

  “I’m sorry if I’m stepping on your toes. I don’t know how to work with you yet. Can we figure it out, together?” I asked. “I’m on your side.”

  In response, he seemed to quicken his pace. Soon he was far ahead of me.

  “Wait up,” I called.

  Jackson just ignored me, turning into terrain that was a bit more rugged. I followed, refusing to let him get away. Much of the path was uphill and I soon grew tired. Suddenly the trail took a quick turn to the right. After a moment I realized we were headed downhill.

  Jackson began expertly maneuvering his way through the trees, picking up speed. Soon he was far ahead of me. I followed, determined to catch up. It was exhilarating. I covered a lot of ground quickly and soon his home came back into view below. Just then, a deer leapt across the path. I skidded, attempting to stop, but lost control.

  I plunged downward, a few loud expletives escaping my mouth, then slammed, with a sickening sound, into the tree line.

  Below I heard Jackson’s voice. Anxious. Calling, “Ellie? Ellie?”

  I sat up, dazed. From the ground, I assessed the damage. My head? Fine. Arms? Fine. Legs?

  Jackson was suddenly by my side. “Are you okay?” he asked. He knelt down, lifting my face up to meet his fierce gaze. He looked into my eyes, searching. “What happened? Did you hit your head?”

  “No. A deer jumped in front of me,” I mumbled, embarrassed.

  “Well I’d say the deer won,” he said, softly chuckling as he snapped the skis off my boots. “Can you try to stand?”

  “I think so,” I said. But when I tried, my left knee buckled, and Jackson rushed to hold me up in his arms. They were strong and warm around me.

  “Looks like you twisted your knee. Does anything else hurt?”

  “Besides my pride? I think I’m fine.”

  He looked back up the path at the tracks my skis had made on the way down.

  “You took some spill. I’m impressed you’re standing.” He released me from his arms and unsnapped from his skis. “Try to put weight on the other leg. How’s that feel?”

  “It’s sore,” I replied. “But it’s okay. I think I can walk if I don’t put too much weight on my knee.”

  “I can’t let you do that,” he said. “You’ll just aggravate the injury. I’m going to carry you.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I said, getting defensive. “It’s just down the hill. I’m sure I can make it.”

  “Don’t be stubborn, Ellie,” he said, looking down at me with those intense blue eyes, his gaze unyielding. “I’ve got you.”

  Then he lifted me easily into his arms and carried me through the snow, over his doorstep, and finally back into the living room.

  Cross-country skiing is an aerobic activity and I’d worked up quite a sweat. I was shivering in Jackson’s arms by the time he lowered me carefully onto the couch and said, “Wait here.”

  Moments later he returned with a thick cashmere robe, which must have been his own judging by the forest green color and the size of it. “I need you to take off your clothes,” he directed, “and put this on.”

  His face was serious, but his words sent a rush of heat straight to my pussy, and a blush to my cheeks that I hoped my frozen skin would disguise.

  “Thank you,” I said, my voice gone low and throaty. Jackson nodded and crossed the room to build up the fire.

  I turned away, positioned myself behind a chair to quickly strip out of my icy garments, and slipped into the robe. It was much too big, but it was soft and so warm that I sighed with pleasure as it enveloped me. Then I limped over toward Jackson and curled up in the chair nearest the fire.

  He knelt beside me, elbow resting on the chair, not talking for a few minutes. It was soothing, just watching the fire next to him, both of us lost in our thoughts. But I couldn’t seem to relax, to forget that I was completely naked under the robe, that his body was just inches away.

  “I shouldn’t have—” he started, at the same time I said, “I wish I’d—”

  We both stopped and looked at each other, and I saw something on his face that I’d never seen before. A genuine smile.

  “Ellie.” He looked into my eyes for several long seconds with an intensity that burned straight through my core. “The reason I can’t work with you is because—” He stopped and
shook his head as if to clear it.

  “Because why?” I interrupted, devastated, struggling to process that Jackson Ford was saying he was actually not going to work with me after all. “Do you just want someone older, or maybe another male editor? Do you think I’m not experienced enough to—”

  “No,” he said, looking away as his words came in a breathless rush. “The reason I can’t work with you is because I want you so bad I can’t even stand being in the same room as you.” He looked back at me, his eyes dark with desire. My heart was racing in my chest as he spoke, an answering ache throbbing between my thighs. “I don’t know how you expect me to get any work done while you’re here. The truth is, you are driving me fucking crazy. And I can’t hold back anymore.”

  Suddenly his lips were on mine, hot and demanding, my mouth opening hungrily against his as a wave of desire crested over me. As our tongues tangled, my hands went to his broad shoulders, the back of his neck, my fingers interlacing in his hair. I moaned softly without thinking, and he pulled me down off the chair and into his lap, crushing my body against his while being mindful of my injured knee.

  I couldn’t stop myself from grinding against him, matching the intensity of his kiss with utter abandon. It was like the phone sex we’d had, where Jackson’s forceful demands, his lust, unlocked something reckless inside of me—a version of myself that was wild and full of uncontrollable desire and dying to be set free. In that moment, every single part of me wanted him, and I knew he wanted me, too.

  “Jackson,” I panted, pulling away.

  His eyes searched my gaze, but before I could speak the words had fled me and I put my hands back around his neck and pulled his lips back onto mine, stroking my tongue against his with renewed fervor. Fuck, but I needed this. Needed him.

  He lifted me in his arms and took a few steps over to the ottoman, where he set me down and knelt before me. “You have two choices,” he said, his voice a low growl. “You can lay back right now and spread your legs for me, or you can go upstairs to your room and rest that knee, and we can forget that any of this ever happened. Choose, Ellie.”