Page 54 of No More Billionaires

His dark hair glistened in the sun shining through the kitchen window between us. He’d pushed the sleeves of his sweater up to his elbows, and the muscles in his forearm moved under the—

I forced my eyes back to the Spam slices. So, okay, maybe “relaxing” wasn’t the right word for him. Pleasant?

The food stored, he moved to the wood bin, neatly stacking the logs he’d brought in earlier. He squatted by the stove as he worked, the motion causing his leg muscles to stand out in relief where the jeans were pulled tight against them.

Yeah—“pleasant” didn’t quite cover it, either.

He glanced up, catching me in my perusal of him and grinned.

I jerked into action, carrying the fry-pan full of processed meat-like substance to the stovetop.

“You know—I think you actually like this roughing-it stuff. If you don’t watch it, you’re going to get kicked out of the Spoiled Rich Boy Club.”

His grin spread. “You think so? I’ve been trying to get out of that club my whole life. If I’d only known a southern ice storm was the key, I’d have made my way down here years earlier.”

“Seriously though—thank you for all you’ve done, with the food, and the fire, and the bath, and the clothes. I don’t know what I would have done if—well, I’m glad you’re here.”

He stared at me for a long beat. “Thanks. You make a pretty good frontier-woman yourself.”

I blushed, in spite of the ridiculousness of his compliment. “I don’t know. Did they have Diet Dr. Pepper on the frontier?”

Turning away from him, I set to work, surrounded by the homey fragrance of sizzling food and battling the sense of comfortable intimacy that insisted on settling around our little domestic scene.

I needed to remember thiswasn’tthe frontier, Iwasn’tLarson’s woman, and I couldnotallow myself to take any pleasure in playing house with him.

EIGHTEEN

Games

“Kenley, you are killing me,” Larson groaned. “You can’t stop there.”

“I can, and I am. I’m not going any further, and you can’t pressure me into it.”

We sat facing each other at the rickety table, six dice spread on the surface between us. Off to one side, a candle glowed, illuminating our game.

“But you only have five hundred points, and you can roll again. You could still get three of a kind, easily,” Larson said.

“It’s okay. I’m happy with my five hundred.”

I scribbled my pitiful score with a pen and scrap of paper I’d scrounged from my purse then lifted my plastic cup and drained it of pink wine.

“This stuff isn’t as bad as I remember.”

“I think that may be desperation speaking.” Larson laughed. “It’s awful. Would you like a refill? You could certainlyusesome liquid courage,” he teased.

“Are you calling me chicken?” I lifted my chin to him.

He grabbed the box and poured me another cup of wine and one for himself. “Itisthe name of the game.”

It was actually what the game was called. We’d found the dice and a deck of cards in one of the kitchen drawers beside the extra matches.

After we’d firmly established I was hopeless at poker, I’d taught him the dice game “Chicken” that my grandparents had loved playing with us whenever we’d visited their house. Larson was way ahead of me, playing recklessly and rolling his dice to the brink of danger, just as Cadence always did.

Sometimes he’d wipe out, but usually he ended up with a spectacular score at the end of his turn, rewarding his risk-taking.

My method since early childhood had been a slow and steady gradual accumulation of points. I’d been the turtle to Cadence’s hare. Larson was apparently a jack-rabbit as well.

I took a sip of my wine, looking at him over the rim of my cup and definitely feeling the effects of its contents.

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