Page 78 of Westin

He nods. “I’m parked off the road.”

He sets me down and takes my hand. I follow him blindly, my brain turned off. All I want is to put all my fear into his capable hands and lose myself in him for tonight.

We get to his truck, parked halfway in the woods. He pulls open the door and lifts me inside. Our eyes meet, and he takes his hat off and fits it on my head.

My throat tightens. I want to speak, but I can’t. He closes the door, and there’s a second of silence while he circles the truck. Then, he gets in, filling the cab with his presence, warm like a fireplace on a cold night.

I inhale, closing my eyes. For the next few hours, I’m safe.

He’s big, rough, but not the way the Garrisons are, not the way that will hurt me.

I don’t know how I know. I just do.

Maybe that’s why I bend to him when I’ve never bent to any man.

We drive in silence. He reaches over, shoves his hand up under my skirt, and grips my thigh, right below my panties. I’m soaked, tingling with desire. Part of me wants him to pull over and tie me to the wheel the way he did before. The rest of me knows how much better it will be if I can just wait until we get to his bed.

The driveway up to Sovereign Mountain is long. A sign looms overhead, stark against the night sky. There’s a huge, sprawling ranch house that sits by a glittering lake, blue in the moonlight. To the right, I see all the lights of the employee housing. Beyond that, stars dance over the trees and dark mountains.

The air feels pure up here. It reminds me of being home at Carter Farms.

Westin pulls around the house and down the side driveway. Not far from the ranch house sits what was likely a guardhouse once upon a time. It’s large, two stories, shaded by two huge trees on either side of the door.

He cuts the engine. I take off his hat and lay it on the dashboard.

“Is this where you live?” I whisper.

He nods. “I prefer it. People come through the ranch house all day, but the gatehouse is quiet.”

“Can anyone see us?” I turn and look back at the light on in the upper level of the ranch house.

“It’s possible,” he says, opening the door. “But not likely.”

I wait until he comes to lift me out. It’s amazing how fast my brain went from survival mode to letting him manage everything. He sets me on my feet, takes my hand, and leads me to the front door. He pulls it open, guiding me through with a hand on my back.

The light flickers on. We’re standing in an open concept living room. Everything is clean and neat, the furniture dark wood and leather. The rug is a deep blue plaid, and it matches the curtains in the kitchen on the far end of the space.

It’s exactly as I thought Westin Quinn would live. Clean, no frills. Everything is in its place, all the dishes in the sink washed and towels folded on the counter.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

I shake my head. How can I be hungry at a time like this?

He jerks his head up to the ceiling. “Let’s go upstairs, darling.”

Maybe this is as simple as it was when he took me upstairs to my bed; when, between my sheets, I learned what it felt like to be alive. But it doesn’t feel that way. Maybe because we both have more scars this time around.

I know my heart is broken and tied together with nothing but a string called Westin Quinn. If I had to guess, I’d say his heart was already broken when we met.

He holds out his palm. I slip mine over it.

Then, we go upstairs.

His bed is just like the rest of the house—clean and neat, white sheets and a plaid blue quilt, turned down. Everything smells like laundry soap. There’s a wooden cart in the corner by the fireplace. On it sits a glass and a bottle of whiskey.

“Turn around.”

I obey. He shuts the door. Now that we’re in full light, my eyes roam over him hungrily. His deep chestnut hair is slicked back, like he ran his fingers through it. I’m so close, I can see the faint lines around his eyes. I wonder if they’re from wearing that pleasant mask everywhere, the one he takes off when we’re alone.

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