Page 66 of On the Edge

“Dunno.” She shrugs her shoulders without even opening her eyes. “Somewhere in the village.”

Great. There are only about a dozen different condo complexes in the village. She doesn’t know where she’s staying, and clearly doesn’t have a key since her purse and jacket are back in the bar. Even if I called them to find out, it’s not like I’m leaving Jackson alone in this state. I’m sure her friends would come home to take care of her, but they almost don’t even deserve that opportunity after the way they let her get abducted in the first place.

Fuck it. “You’re coming home with me.”

That news earns me a small smile and a whispered, “Good.”

CHAPTER18

JACKSON

Big Sky, Montana

I’m trying to be mad at myself for my stupidity, because I know tonight could have turned out very differently if Nate wasn’t keeping such a close eye on me. But I’m warm and I’m drunk and being in Nate’s truck with him just feels right. He watches the road, his face a chiseled mask of concentration. His body is the polar opposite, looking relaxed as he leans back against his seat, his right hand resting on the top of the wheel while he holds it steady with his thumb.

We glide along the road cut between trees as we gain elevation, traveling up the mountain away from the village. In the distance Lone Peak shines brightly in the moonlight, it’s stark white face casting a beautiful glow over the tree line below.

“God, I love it here.” I sigh. Everything has this ethereal glow, and I don’t know if it’s just the natural beauty under the full moon or if the alcohol has changed my vision. Maybe this is like beer goggles, but for mother nature?

“I knew you would,” Nate says, so quietly that I almost can’t be sure he said it at all. I want to ask him what he means, but he turns off the main road and I’m distracted as we’re driving past houses that look like something out of a winter calendar—all log cabin style with steeply pitched metal roofs and gables with big windows and snow piled up around them. Every house has similar architectural details, but they’re all different enough that it doesn’t feel cookie-cutter. We’re almost down the full length of the street, which ends at an opening to a ski run, when Nate turns into a driveway of the most perfect ski house I’ve ever seen. Its enormous walls of windows are slightly more modern than the other houses we’ve passed, but it still fits.

I’m so focused on the house that I must have missed Nate getting out of the truck, because suddenly he’s opening my door, unbuckling my seatbelt, and sliding me down to the ground. Standing here pinned between his body and the seat of the truck, I realize how much my body still craves his. I look up at him, his blue eyes are focused on my face, searching.

“Stop giving me that look,” he says, and turns his face away.

“Hey,” I say, my hand landing on his sternum. “What look?” He looks pissed off suddenly.

“Let’s get you inside,” he says and pushes me forward to walk up the path in front of him. I’m acutely aware of how close his body is to mine, the heat radiating off him as he follows closely behind me, his hands on my hips to make sure I don’t slip on the packed snow of his shoveled walkway.

Nate uses his thumbprint on the keypad to let us in and the voice-activated lights softly glow at about fifty percent strength, casting the two-story entryway in golden light. I take a look around while I sit on the tufted bench and remove my shoes. The floor plan is open and modern with clearly defined living spaces and oversize windows with what I’m sure are gorgeous views.

“Are all your properties like this one?” I’ve made it my policy not to ask personal questions like this, but the alcohol is lowering my guard.

“Most of them are a little more modest,” Nate says as he deposits the contents of his pockets into a black marble bowl on a table opposite the bench I’m sitting on.

“How many houses do you own?”

“Enough.”

My breath leaves my mouth in a distinctly annoyedpfft. “You know, one is enough for most people.”

“Most people aren’t making a living off vacation rental properties.” He shrugs.

He’s got a distinct five o’clock shadow tonight, and it makes me wonder if he didn’t shave this morning. I like him best clean shaven, but this look is rugged and hot and I’m bothered by the fact that I just cannot stop being attracted to him, no matter how hard I try.Stop trying, a little voice in the back of my head suggests. But even the alcohol isn’t enough for me to forget that everything hinges on us not getting together—Marco’s secret, my current job, and my future job at Danforth.

He leads me into the kitchen and I run into a barstool at the island because I’m so busy taking in the gorgeousness of it all—the black lower cabinets with some kind of etched gray stone countertops, the geometric pattern of the marble backsplash, and the light wood upper cabinets. Nate pulls the seat out for me and deposits me in it, and I sink into the supple leather. He pulls a loaf of bread out of a cabinet and slices a piece off before buttering it and putting it in the toaster oven. He grabs some jam from the fridge and while his back is to me I admire the way his jeans cling to his ass.Stop it, I tell myself, but my stupid eyes don’t listen, they just continue ogling him.

I set my elbow on the countertop and rest my chin on my fist because my head feels heavy and what I really want to do is close my eyes and go to sleep.

“Nope,” Nate says, materializing next to me as he puts an enormous glass of water and some ibuprofen in front of me. “Don’t even think about going to sleep until you’ve drank this entire glass, had your ibuprofen, and eaten the toast I’m making you. You’re not waking up sick or hungover.”

“Why are you still taking care of me?” I ask, certain I haven’t done anything to deserve this treatment from him.

“Old habits die hard,” he says, then pulls his quarter-zip sweater over his head. His T-shirt clings to it and lifts almost up to his chest before he’s pulling it back down with one hand and pulling the sweater off with the other.

My mouth is full of sand. I can’t tear my eyes away from the peaks and valleys of those abdominal muscles, even after his shirt is covering them again. I gently slide my fingers along the countertop searching for that glass of water. When Nate leans toward me, I glance up and his pale blue eyes are crinkled at the corners, tinged with laughter that’s only expressed on his face.

As he hands me the glass of water I was searching for, I realize that I don’t even care that he’s caught me staring at his body. I take a sip, then another, until I’ve drank half the glass. He hands me the ibuprofen and his fingertips grazing my palm send jolts of electricity up my arm, spreading a warm glow through the heart I’ve tried to keep frozen. I swallow the pills as he places the toast in front of me.

---