Page 18 of Impossible Love

We pull up to my place two minutes later. She lets herself out of the Jeep while I grab her bags. Her eyes are already wide as she takes in my Craftsman ranch. We climb the pine steps of the front porch and stop at the massive front door. I commissioned a local artist to build it last year from cedar, hammered copper, and beveled glass.

“Oh,” she whispers, surprised.

I open the door for her, looking forward to her continued shock and awe.

“Holy shit.”

I smile to myself, knowing that was the reaction I was going for when I built the place. I had it custom designed with everything exactly the way I wanted it. Three bedrooms and five baths in a single story. Huge gourmet kitchen, a great room with a cathedral ceiling and a floor-to-ceiling river rock fireplace, all of it finished in polished oak and pine with hammered copper accents. Game room, billiard room, security-cleared conference room, and theater room.

The back wall is made of thermal floor-to-ceiling glass accordion doors that provide a jaw-dropping view of the lake and the open range and snow-capped mountains beyond. The doors fold away with the touch of a button, and the back deck features an overstuffed conversation sectional, fire pit, hot tub, lounges, and an open-air sauna.

I may be a former SEAL with demolition expertise, but those days are behind me. No more blowing up shit. I’m all about building shit these days. And I’m not shy about enjoying a few luxuries.

“Let me get you situated.” I walk past the Speechless Problem Solver, who has stopped in the center of the great room and is staring all around her, eyes going from the ceiling to the fireplace to the kitchen to the wall of glass. She lingers a long moment at the baby grand piano. It was my mother’s most treasured material possession.

I’m halfway down the hall when she catches up with me. I flip on the light switch and carry her bags through the room and directly into the generous walk-in closet. “Closet’s here. Bathroom’s there.” I point to the adjoining room of copper and marble. “There’re fresh sheets on the bed. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thanks—”

I shut the door behind me and make my way to the back deck. I rest my hands on the railing and stare absently across the ranch, getting my breath to settle, wondering what the fuck has just happened. All I did was agree to drop off Finn, Declan, and Jasmine at the airpark! But I picked up a wholly unexpected plot twist, one that’s got me all twisted up.

There’s an incredibly beautiful woman in my guest room right now. But she wants to buy part of our ranch, our family history, our family legacy. She wants to get her hands on it, and I can't let her. She called us pushovers. Easy money. We’re nothing but a mark to her.

I don’t care how beautiful she is—she can’t be trusted.

And what’s up with Dad winking at me the way he did? When he’d just assured me he was serious about getting an offer on Sulfur Springs?

This fucking week can’t be over fast enough.

I can hear her on the phone again, all the way through the walls and thermal glass. Her voice is raised. It seems she spends a good portion of her waking hours shouting into her phone.

I’m hungry, so I head back into the kitchen, thinking about what I’m in the mood for, what will scratch that itch.

Redhead. That’s what I’m in the mood for.

But that delicacy is off the menu.

I open the fridge and start hauling out everything I think I’ll need—a couple ribeyes, asparagus, shallots, fresh peas, cherry tomatoes, and shiitake mushrooms. Then I grab the heavy cream and aged Parmesan Reggiano.

As always, I thank my lucky stars that Declan flies into Lake Tahoe once a week to load up on organic fresh produce, aged cheeses, pantry staples, and good wine. I love it here, but I refuse to live without high-quality ingredients.

I love to cook and I’m damn good at it.

I hear the guest room door open at the end of the hall, followed by quiet footfalls on the wood floors. It sounds like she’s in sock feet, no shoes, so she must have changed her clothes. I don’t look up for confirmation. I’m not in the mood to see that pretty, feminine face and those simmering green eyes. I’d rather stay busy by chopping the shit out of the shiitakes and keep to myself.

Out of my peripheral vision, I see that she’s wandered into the great room. She drags a fingertip across the custom cedar mantel and bends down to look at family photos on the bookshelves. She stops to admire the piano, humming to herself. Eventually, she plops down on the sectional that faces out the back. I hear her sigh, like she approves of the view.

Not that her approval means anything to me.

Her phone rings, yet again, cutting through the peaceful silence.

“Dad!” she hisses into the phone. “I just explained to you—yes! Fine! I already said I would. I just asked a simple question about the… there’s no need to—”

Her dad’s an asshole, obviously. She sounds stressed. I almost feel sympathy for her.

Nah.

“Why can’t you just trust me to take care of it? I told you I’d keep you posted, and I will. No, Father. I’m not accusing you—”

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