Page 59 of Rosabel and the Billionaire Beast

I didn’t need quiet. I needed the roar of a bustling city. I needed honking cars and harried people—something to get my mind off of the conundrum that was my boss.

And—yeah. The thought of kissing him.

“He’s just messing with me,” I muttered.

Like he always did.

My shoes crunched on the single-lane dirt road once the cement ended. Even without the slew of million-dollar homes spanning the stretch of mountain where Duncan and I had secluded ourselves, the sheer number of trees creating a fortress around us was breathtaking.

Duncan had mentioned something about the seclusion. About no one finding us here.

Who was looking?

That was a question I wouldnotask. Not after the turn the last question I’d asked had taken. Knowing him, he’d twist it around to make it sound likeIwas the one who wanted to be secluded with him.

Alone with Duncan? With his simmering glances and that little smirk and the way he sparked my soul to life? No, thanks.

“Stop thinking about him,” I told myself, picking up the pace.

The single-lane road cut a path wide enough for one car to crawl along these woods. It twisted and wound around whatever breaks in the trees it could find. At one point, a tree rebelled and stuck itself in the road’s center, so cars had to steer to either side of its trunk.

I slowed my steps and smiled at the tree’s resilience.

“That’s right,” I told the tree in passing. Jogging caused my breath to quicken. “Be relentlessly you."

I nodded to the tree as if expecting the wood to return the greeting. Something else about the tree caused my steps to slow that much more. It looked like scratch marks were etched all along the tree’s trunk.

I’d seen pictures of the claw marks bears and other animals made on trees out in the wild. But these weren’t parallel scratches. These looked more like carvings.

Resting a hand on my side, I trotted in for a better view. Sure enough, initials were carved into the trunk—some with hearts, some merely connected by nothing more than a plus sign, indicating that the two who’d carved their initials belonged together. Dates were also scrambled in along with the names.

I peered at the private lane, wondering when this had started. There weren’t that many homes here—who had done this, and for how long?

This was the stuff of cheesy romance movies. I ran my finger along several of the initials, many of which had colored enough to imply that this had been done long ago. Random passersby?

Retreating step by step, I didn’t notice the other woman coming toward me until we nearly collided.

“Oh,” I said, veering to the side.

The woman stopped as well. Black hair hung down her back in a single braid, and her dark skin was beaded with sweat.

“Sorry,” the woman blurted. She jogged in place, pods in her ears, and offered me a small smile.

I pointed to the tree. “Not to interrupt your run, but what’s with the tree in the middle of the road?”

The woman plucked her earbud free, her chest laboring to catch her breath.

“Oh, that? That’s the Sweetheart Tree. Supposedly, when they were building this development, the contractor orderedcompanies to preserve it. I guess it’s been here for longer than we have.”

“That’s amazing.”

Resting a hand on her hip, the woman bobbed her head in agreement, breathing hard. “Do you own a place around here?”

“No, I don’t. I work for someone who does.”

“Cool. I’m Hazel, by the way. Hazel Strickland.”

“Rosabel Astor.” I offered a hand, and we shook.

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