Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 119746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
The drive back from Tahoe takes longer than it should. I keep pulling over, studying the turnouts and trails that Lainey might have taken, even though I know the search parties combed this area years ago. Even though I know, deep down, that she never made it this far into town. Someone would have seen her, but no one had.
How did she just…disappear?
The sun is setting by the time I turn onto the ranch’s drive, painting the mountains in shades of blood and gold. My muscles ache from this morning’s ride, but it’s a good kind of pain. The kind that means progress. At least I was able to face a fear of mine, even though I know it won’t be that simple going forward. Yes, I can ride in a pen, with Jensen at my side, but it will take time for me to be comfortable riding in steep and rough terrain. In a way I’m grateful for the storm rolling in. As much as I want to be hitting the trails already and getting the search for Lainey underway, my muscles will need time to recover.
I spot Jensen through the main house windows as I park, puttering around the kitchen. Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m climbing the porch steps and knocking on the door.
“Everything okay?” he asks as he opens it, squinting at me, the golden light of the sunset making his face glow slightly, setting the amber in his eyes on fire.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I try not to stare at the way his T-shirt pulls across his chest. I clear my throat. “I just thought…maybe you could use some help? With dinner.”
He studies me for a long moment, then he steps back, leaving just enough space for me to squeeze past him into the house. His heat radiates against my arm as I pass.
“You cook?” he asks, heading toward the kitchen. “Cuz that would be helpful.”
I shrug off my jacket, putting it on the back of a stool. “I’m good at following directions.”
His mouth twitches at that, but he hands me the cutting board and a pile of vegetables. “Alright. Get choppin’.”
The kitchen is warm and fragrant with garlic and herbs. A pot of something simmers on the stove, and there’s meat marinating in a dish by the sink. Being here with him feels strangely domestic and easy, like we’ve done this a hundred times before.
“Where’re the others?” I ask, washing my hands at the sink.
“Out.” He moves to the stove, stirring whatever’s in the pot. Then he hands me another knife and says, “Dice the onions first. Put them in the pot.”
He’s a bossy one, but I wouldn’t expect anything less. I get to work, trying not to notice how the kitchen suddenly feels smaller with just the two of us in it.
The rich scent of caramelizing onions fills the air as I slide the diced pieces from the cutting board into the pot. Jensen stirs, the muscles in his forearm flexing with the motion. Once again I have to remind myself not to stare. He hasn’t said much since we started cooking, but the silence feels companionable rather than tense, for once.
“What next?” I ask, wiping my hands on a dishtowel.
He nods toward the pile of vegetables. “Carrots. Slice them thin so they cook evenly.”
He really didn’t need to add that last part and I’m tempted to point out that I do know how to cook, but I bite my lip and grab another knife and get to work, the steady rhythm of chopping blending with the bubble of the simmering stew. Every so often, Jensen’s arm brushes mine as he reaches for a spice or adjusts the heat. Each fleeting touch sends a jolt through me, awareness prickling along my skin.
“You’re quiet,” he says after a while, voice low in the hush of the kitchen.
I shrug, keeping my eyes on the carrots. “Just focusing.”
“On the vegetables or on the reason you’re really here?”
My knife pauses mid-slice. “I told you. I wanted to help with dinner.”
“Uh huh.” He leans a hip against the counter, arms crossing over his chest. “Most people, they want something from me, they just come out and ask. But you…you sidle up, make yourself useful. It’s…disarming.”
I set down the knife and turn to face him fully, watching him carefully. “You know what I want. It’s worth a hundred grand. You think I have some ulterior motive?”
“I think people are rarely honest about what they want.” His gaze is steady, assessing. “Especially people like you.”
“People like me,” I echo, my nerves prickling. “And what kind of person is that?”
If he calls me a city girl again, I swear to god…
“The kind who shows up out of nowhere, asking questions she already knows the answers to, waving money in the air.” He takes a step closer, crowding me against the counter, enough that my breath hitches. “The kind who watches everything, filing it away. The kind who doesn’t seem to be afraid of all the right things.”