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My Secret Fantasies
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HOT WOMEN WERE usually trouble.
Hot Hollywood women? They ought to come with a skull and crossbones taped to their foreheads. The potential for danger was just too damn high.
Damien Fraser knew this firsthand, having been born the son of a prominent American director and a flamboyant Italian actress. Their affair had produced three sons neither had time for, and the boys had grown up without much supervision, which meant Damien had tangled with his fair share of grasping Hollywood actresses who’d wanted to date him because of his famous father. But since he’d moved to Sonoma County and taken up horse breeding—a calculated move to distance himself from the Fraser fame—he’d figured his days of dealing with this kind of crap were done.
“I don’t understand.” Miranda Cortland ran a weary hand through blond curl that went in every direction, her pale blue eyes shadowed with dark circles that didn’t do a thing to diminish her appeal. “I love the place. I’ve got a deposit. You want to make a quick sale, here you go. I’d like to rent out the spot until the official closing, so I can throw in whatever you think is fair for a month’s rent. Or two.”
She dug deeper in her backpack and emerged with a wallet.
Damien scratched his forehead, which was smeared with dirt and sweat from his time in the fields. He couldn’t make the pieces add up here. The woman was sunburned. Her car was old and in need of repair. Actually, all her stuff looked like it had seen better days; the hodgepodge collection of goods that he’d spotted inside the SUV appeared secondhand. She seemed down on her luck for a woman who’d just won a reality game show he’d never heard of—Gutsy Girl. That much definitely fit.
Miranda Cortland showed some serious bravado coming all the way up here to pitch him her idea, when she looked about as far from tearoom elegance as he could imagine. He was pretty sure she had permanent eyeliner tattooed around her lashes. Silver cuffs wrapped around her right earlobe the whole way down.
“The problem is this.” He cracked open a window to let more air into the place and leaned back against a rough support beam. “I’m building a brand with Fraser Farm. And it’s got to be upscale to support the growth I need in the Thoroughbred market.”
He needed word of mouth among a small, elite client base.
“This tearoom will be elegant and charming. A perfect match.” She crossed her arms at her midsection, right where he recalled seeing a silver belly-button ring in the shape of a snake.
Did she have any idea how much she stood out here? Not just in this part of the state, but on his farmland? In his mind? She was so bright and bold—from her yellow flip-flops with the big daisies between her toes to her lime-green lace camisole—it was like she operated on another frequency altogether.
“Unfortunately, the kind of crowd your high profile will draw may not reflect the brand I’m developing.”
“That’s incredibly elitist and also...incorrect.” Her voice remained steady, but he sensed more than heard the strong emotions there.
Chances were good that Miranda Cortland was here only to get close to his famous family. He’d had that happen before. So if she sounded convincingly disappointed, she probably was. But mostly because she wouldn’t be granted her “in” with a famous Hollywood producer-director. Hell, Damien’s father, Thomas Fraser, ran an independent studio, so he was definitely the kind of connection someone like Miranda might seek out.
“Fair or not, I have to think about the growth of my small business, and I prefer to have some kind of store or restaurant on site that will cater to the clientele I want to attract.” He’d posted as much in his Craigslist ad.
When you were starting a business, every dollar counted, so he really wanted to make this sale. Especially since he refused to take a cent from his obnoxiously wealthy family. He just wouldn’t make the sale to Miranda Cortland.
“Heard and understood, as I explained in my email to you—”
“Yet you did not disclose your celebrity status, and I have personal reasons for not aligning myself with the film industry.” He headed for the door, needing to get back to work. As much as he’d enjoyed the distraction of a female that wasn’t equine, he had ten other places he needed to be. His payroll was already ridiculously high with the specialized talent this kind of operation required, so until he could afford more help, he often had to be everywhere at once. “You’re welcome to leave your vehicle here for as long as necessary. Would you like a ride anywhere?”
“No.” She shook her head and backed up a step, as if she was going to follow him outside. “Can I just—please. Let me just show you one thing before you leave.”
She held up her faded floral backpack, making a barrier between him and the door. He wasn’t sure if she meant to slow him down or if the thing she wanted him to see was inside the bag. He noticed there were pins all over it—a cat with a hair bow in pink crystals, a few metal buttons advertising hole-in-the-wall nightclubs, a miniature L.A. Raiders jersey. The bag looked as if it had been around the world and back.
“I can’t stay much longer.” He held up his phone, showing a video feed of a birthing stable. “I’ve got a mare going into labor.”
“Fine.” Miranda was already setting her pack on the floor again and digging inside the bottomless interior. The sight of her sunburned arms and the bump of each vertebra showing through her tank top felt like chastisements.
What if she really was in need of a break? Something about her bravado—in spite of whatever personal issues she was dealing with—spoke to him on a gut level. He’d gambled everything to escape Hollywood once, too.
“I need some air.” Mostly because the woman smelled like peaches and he wanted to inhale her. He struggled not to feel sympathetic toward her. Or even more attracted. “So let’s talk outside.”
“Yes.” She followed him out onto the narrow porch, where two faded rockers still sat from the building’s long-ago use as a farm stand. “Just take a look at these before you give me your final answer.”
She held two pieces of paper in her hand. Actually, one sheet and one large photograph.
“I drew this last night when I couldn’t sleep.” She flipped the paper and handed it to him. “I think the look is very much in keeping with what you’d want to enhance your Thoroughbred business....”
She kept talking, but he was too distracted by the pencil sketch to pay attention. She’d drawn the farm stand building from the outside, but there was new life in it. Flowers bloomed in boxes attached to the front windows by iron brackets. Pillows and blankets were thrown over more rocking chairs on the porch, while round tables underneath big umbrellas made up a second tier of outdoor seating on a flagstone patio. The sketch was so detailed he could see some kind of flowering moss between the flagstones. A banner blew in an imaginary breeze, the flag depicting a steaming cup of tea and the name Under the Oaks.
“...I couldn’t draw the inside because you hadn’t posted any pictures.” Miranda was still speaking. “I’m not sure I’d really call it Under the Oaks, but it fits because of the trees and—”
“And it’s a racing term. Yeah. I know.” The whole thing was elegant and charming, just as she’d promised. He had to admit the picture she’d drawn was appealing and exactly the kind of operation he’d envisioned to complement his growing business. He actually had a few rooms to accommodate guests who visited their horses on site, but as of now, there were no facilities for feeding visitors.
The tearoom could fill the gap for some food service. Except that she could be full of B.S. about what she’d do with a tearoom. What were the chances a young actress who’d just experienced success on a reality show would really want to come live in the anonymity of Sonoma? No, damn it. She was only conning him, to get close to the Fraser fame.
“You could have input, of course, if my take on this is too cute. I could make it more horse-themed. Lots of hunter-green and burgundy, like a gentleman’s den.” She frowned at her sketch over his shoulder. “Usually tearooms appeal to women, so—”
“It’s great.” He realized how close she stood. Her scent hypnotized him even as her springy blond curls brushed his shoulder. “The concept is well-targeted.” He returned the paper to her and took a step back. “But just because you’ve got the right idea doesn’t promise a successful execution.”
She flipped a large photograph under his nose.
“This is the Melrose Tearoom, where I worked until a couple of weeks ago.” She pointed to the picture of her with two smiling young women, at a table full of fancy silver trays, tiny sandwiches, crystal champagne flutes and porcelain teacups. In the background, a sunny atrium with uniformed waiters and linen-covered tables showed more of the same. “If you’d like to speak to my former boss, Joelle, she’ll tell you I was personally responsible for much of her return business. I’m good at being a hostess, and I helped her stock a lot of unique specialty items that really increased her retail sales.”
“Why did you leave?” He rechecked his phone to make sure the mare in the birthing stall still looked good. Damn it, he needed to just tell Miranda no and get back to work.
Memories of finding her walking north on Highway 1 kept biting him right in the conscience. She had to have been out there a couple hours before he’d found her. He’d been so engrossed getting the fence restrung that he hadn’t checked his messages. She must have been determined to meet with him to make that long trek in the afternoon sun. To risk sunburn on her fair skin, when beauty was such a highly sought after commodity in her world.
“Honestly, I left because...” She met his gaze and bit her lip. “I attracted too much attention from that stupid TV show, but the fascination with stuff like that has a short shelf life. And up here, there are bound to be less tourists purposely looking for a brush with anyone remotely famous.”
He’d heard enough. He handed her back the picture.
“Listen, if this was just some random piece of property, I would sell it to you in a minute.” He tucked his phone in the back pocket of his jeans. “But I’ve got too much at stake in a business where the overhead is staggering. I can’t afford to have any operation on what is basically my property that might detract from what I’m trying to build.”
He’d invested every cent of his finances and himself in the Thoroughbreds. This farm had given him stability and purpose at a time when he needed to escape escalating family drama. He’d built a very different kind of life here. A stable life. There were no more weekend trips to Europe to help his mother solve some so-called urgent crisis that turned out to be an uneven number of men versus women at her latest dinner party. No more scandals involving his father’s revolving door of twenty-year-old girlfriends. Definitely no more would-be starlets who’d do “anything” for a chance to meet his father. Even pretend to give a rat’s ass about Damien.
Now, he kept in touch with his brothers, Trey and Lucien. But he was finished with the movie business and he was done with his high-profile parents.
“Interest in the show is dying down,” she pressed. “And I can make this tearoom kick butt.”
He was already heading for his truck. “I’m sure you could, but I just can’t take chances right now. If I get a bunch of tabloid reporters camping out on the property, it’s going to scare off the clients I’ll be inviting up here to check out the operation firsthand.”
He’d worked too hard to take this place to the next level, and he owed it to the former owner, who was also his mentor—a man who’d been better to him than his own father. Ted Howard had provided a job that allowed Damien to feel productive when he’d parted ways with his family, at age seventeen. He’d also shown Damien a different lifestyle—one that valued hard work. Physical labor. Mental fortitude. It had been exactly what a screwed up Hollywood kid had needed to reroute his life. So Damien wasn’t going to relax until Fraser Farm was an equestrian showplace and—more quietly, in a new part of the facility—a humane retirement home and retraining center for Thoroughbreds who didn’t achieve racing stardom. That had been Ted Howard’s dream, a dream the guy might not be around much longer to witness.
Damien’s jaw flexed, his shoulders tensing at the thought. He wanted that dream, too. He’d bought into it at seventeen, while working part-time to earn enough to go to college, and he was fully committed now. This life had saved him, so he planned to make the most of it.
“I am not afraid of hard work.” Miranda dogged his steps. “A tearoom has low overhead and I can get this place up and running before your next guests show up. I realize the car breaking down makes me look kind of, uh, low budget. But I’ve got enough investment capital stashed away for the tearoom. I just won’t spend it on fluffy stuff. Like a car.”
“Sorry.” He paused before the driver’s side door. “But the offer stands if you need a ride. Actually, do you want me to take you somewhere now?” He’d been thinking one of his handymen could cart her around, but how rude would it be to just drive off and leave her stranded? Hell. He’d been an antisocial horse breeder for too damn long.
Checking out of the fast lane didn’t mean he could quit society altogether.
“I’ve got nowhere to go.” She stuffed her hands in the front pocket of her jeans, making him realize she was way too thin. Hot, yes. But she definitely looked in need of...
No. He would not think about her needs.
“You can’t be serious. You’ve got a check for ten grand in that backpack, along with God knows what else.” He had the feeling Miranda Cortland, Gutsy Girl winner and—according to Scotty—the famed Nebraska Backstabber, had a wide assortment of talents to fall back on.
He didn’t think he wanted to be around when the backstabbing skill was revealed, although from what Scotty described, her method of winning the show hadn’t sounded the least bit underhanded.
“My savings are all for a bankable business. And until I find another perfect opportunity—the way this one was supposed to be—I’m not spending a nickel unless I earn it. So...need any help here?” She peered around at the empty fenced pastures.
Damn. It. He could almost picture himself standing here as a seventeen-year-old kid, looking for a job and hoping against hope that Ted Howard would find a way to make him feel useful. Damien hardened his heart, knowing her motives couldn’t be good.
“Not unless you know something about mares in labor,” he drawled, even as he took out his phone to text Scotty, so the kid could drop her at the nearest hotel. Manners be damned, Damien couldn’t deal with Miranda Cortland right now. He’d had a foaling attendant in the birthing stable all day, but he planned to take the night shift himself.
“Are you kidding? I grew up in the heart of Nebraska, surrounded by cornfields and cattle. I guarantee we think just as highly of our cows as you do your fancy racehorses.” She tipped her chin at him, all bold defiance and attitude. “It just so happens I spent more time in the barns than I did in my own living room, thanks to a dysfunctional family.”
Again, she reminded him of himself once upon a time. Hiding out from dysfunction? Yeah, he understood that. Still, he held firm. She had to go.
But when he checked his phone to send Scotty the SOS, he saw the video feed from the birthing stable, where Tallulah’s Nine was circling with restless frustration.
Crap. The mare became front and center in his thoughts. That foal had been sired by one of his most promising studs, and he didn’t have time to boot out Miranda.
“Then get in if you mean it. I’ve got a mare ready to foal tonight.”
* * *
THREE HOURS LATER, I’d shoveled enough straw to fill that stable ten times over. Or so it seemed.
I stopped for a moment to wipe away the sweat on my forehead and check out the miracle going on at my feet, now covered by a pair of huge boots I’d borrowed from Fraser Farm’s extremely well-equipped tack room.
Giving birth was a messy business, and since the foaling attendant—Bekkah, a local vet’s assistant—was busy keeping both the mare and Damien calm, I took up the less glamorous job of keeping the birthing stall filled with fresh straw. Damien had told me twice I didn’t need to, but since Scotty had a sick sister at home and couldn’t stay to do the grunt work necessary to help Tallulah’s Nine, I could tell Damien was glad I was there.
I knew how to stay out of the way. I’d done it from the time I was a pudgy-cheeked kid who didn’t compare to my big sister’s beauty. And I’ll admit, getting into the horse breeder’s good graces was definitely a high priority on my agenda now. My novel heroine, Shaelynn, wouldn’t have just given up and gone home. Especially not once she ran across a hero as hot as Damien. Besides, I loved animals. And I hadn’t had so much as a goldfish since leaving Nebraska. Yet another reason Fraser Farm would be ideal for me.
“Thanks, Miranda.” Damien worked to clean the new bay foal, while Bekkah waited for the afterbirth, the sweet scent of new straw hanging in the air. “With any luck, we’ll get this little guy nursing in the next hour, and then I can find someone else to sit with Tallulah. I just want to be sure there’s no need to call in a vet for anything. After that I’ll be able to take you home. Or wherever you’re staying.”
“Why don’t I sit with her tonight?” I offered, stroking the mare’s nose. “I’ll be able to tell if she’s comfortable.” I peered around the exhausted horse’s flanks to look at Bekkah for confirmation. “Right? Putting a new mother at ease shouldn’t be hard.”
My father’s small farm hadn’t been much, focused more on hybrid varieties of corn than the animals. But my dad had been old-school about farming, and just enough of a doomsday believer to think we ought to have access to our own milk and eggs. The cows and chickens had provided me with dang good company during the worst of my teen years.
“You guys will both have to fight me for the right to stay by her,” the foaling attendant retorted, a few long, dark strands of hair slipping out from under a worn Fraser Farm hat to hide one eye. “I’ve only been doing this for two years and every time it just...amazes me. I’m not going home anytime soon.”
Even if I hadn’t seen her face and the wonder in her deep brown eyes, I would have been able to hear it in her voice. I admired that kind of joy in a job. Moreover, I wished I could find it for myself. I don’t know what had made me think I’d ever be fulfilled as an actress. Yikes. Never trust the decisions you make at eighteen. Especially when they are based on putting distance between yourself and a creepy man.
“You know there’s a bed if you want to catch some rest,” Damien reminded her, his voice warmer, kinder than it seemed toward me. Not that I was jealous or anything. But it made me curious.
“For sure.” Bekkah nodded. “Looks like she’s ready—”
The mare’s contractions yielded the afterbirth that Bekkah had been waiting for. This part was a bigger deal with a Thoroughbred than a cow, I’d gathered. With a horse, it was important that none of the placenta was retained, so Bekkah would have to inspect the whole thing to be sure no pieces were missing that could cause infection in the mare.
Thankfully, the tack room had also been well stocked with gloves.
“Miranda,” Damien said sharply, while I watched Bekkah work. Peering his way, I followed his gaze and saw the foal trying to stand.
Awkward legs and knobby knees struggled to coordinate their efforts. The bay colt wobbled. Leaving the shovel behind, I hurried to Damien’s side. I didn’t know if we were supposed to help the animal or not, but Damien seemed content just to watch. When the newborn got all the way to his feet, he took a step and tested those long, skinny limbs.
“Wow,” I breathed softly, meeting Damien’s hazel eyes over the little creature’s scruffy head. “Incredible.”
Damien didn’t say anything. But his smile warmed me to my toes, our shared moment not needing any words. It felt special just to be there to see the foal standing on those precarious legs, instinctively seeking out its mama in the stall. And, okay, maybe I melted inside to see this big, badass dude—he had chains in his truck—so touched by the sight of the little animal.
I’m not sure how much more time passed before Bekkah declared the placenta intact, and Tallulah’s Nine was cleared from having a vet visit until the morning. I mucked the stable once more so the new mom—a first-timer, apparently—and her foal were clean and comfy for the night. Bekkah and Damien agreed that she’d call right away if she had any concerns. I washed up and stepped outside the big, U-shaped barn and into the moonlight. There were at least thirty stalls in this facility, each with access to fresh air, while giving the animals plenty of shelter and protection, too. I heard more than saw the other horses nearby. When we’d rushed into the barn earlier, I hadn’t noticed many other horses, but then, maybe they’d been in a pasture before sundown.
The soft creak of a door alerted me that Damien had joined me. Turning, I saw his broad shoulders emerge from the shadows of the building. His boots scuffed an even rhythm over the stonework surrounding the large fountain in the middle of the U.
“I’m tempted to wade right in there.” I lifted my face to the mist, even though the temperature had dropped when the sun went down. I’d washed up at a utility sink inside the barn, but still, I needed a major dousing. “You’ve got a beautiful facility here.”
“Thanks.” He sank onto the ledge of the fountain, even though there were benches built around it at regular intervals. “When I bought the place three years ago, it was half the size it is now. At the time, I thought that add-ons like the fountain and the jogging paths around the property would be overkill, but after seeing some other Thoroughbred operations, I knew I had to up the ante if I wanted to compete.”
“What made you want to be in the business?” I was curious about his background. Although he’d seemed a bit anxious during the foaling this evening, it wasn’t the nervousness of a first-timer. He’d done that sort of thing before, I could tell.
His concern was either from a genuine love of animals or, perhaps, worry about his investment. Maybe both. I knew Thoroughbreds were mega-expensive. I couldn’t begin to guess how much that mare or her new foal might be worth.
“I graduated high school early and moved up here to go to college away from family.” He dipped a hand in the fountain and ran wet fingers along his forehead. “I worked here for the former owner while I put myself through Sonoma State.”
I sat beside him, grateful to have a conversation that wasn’t about the sale of his building, or my notoriety. I definitely liked him, and not just because he was megahot. Even if his vision for Fraser Farm was an obstacle to my tearoom, I couldn’t help but admire his commitment. More than that, I still remembered the look on his face when he’d watched the foal stand for the first time.
“How long did you work here before you bought the place?” I put my feet on the ledge, tucking my knees under my chin while we talked. I was cooling down now that we were out of the stables, especially when the breeze occasionally blew the mist from the fountain onto my arms. It went right through my lace blouse.
“Off and on for six years. Even after I did a business internship overseas, the owner convinced me to come back here and apply some of what I’d learned to upgrade his operations.” Damien folded his arms across his chest, staring off into the distance, where I could see lights from what was probably his house. “He also convinced me to buy my own racehorse.”
“Really?” I sounded more surprised than I should have. “I mean, I guess it stands to reason that you must like racing. But I picture Thoroughbred racing as a very upscale sport, and today I’ve seen a very...er, earthy side of you.”
He laughed and that deep, warm sound chased off some of the chill I’d been feeling.
“The behind-the-scenes route to the winner’s circle isn’t exactly littered with roses. But my friend had given me a hell of a deal on the horse he sold me—Learn From Your Mistakes—and I started winning races.”
“Learn From Your Mistakes?” I had to smile. “Sounds like a horse I should have bought.”
“He turned out lucky for me. I made enough off his racing winnings to invest in two more horses. They both paid off even better than my first.” Damien’s voice quieted. “Little did I know Ted was trying to help me earn enough money to make a down payment on this place and take it over.”
“He sounds very generous.” I thought about my own winnings from Gutsy Girl. I wanted so much to put that money to work for me the same way Damien had made his horse’s earnings pay off with smart investments. “So then you bought him out?”
The sound of a soft, horsey snort came from one of the nearby stables, the scent of hay on the breeze.
“He was diagnosed with cancer and wanted to spend the rest of his time on a beach in Costa Rica, but he’d made commitments to other owners, since he boarded horses here. He was in a hurry to sell, but wanted to put the farm in the hands of someone who would honor those obligations and fulfill his other dream, of opening a Thoroughbred retirement and retraining facility.”
“Retraining facility?”
“For horses that don’t make the cut on the racing circuit. Too often, those Thoroughbreds who don’t start winning early in their career aren’t given a long enough chance to prove their worth. But there are a lot of options for them. Show horses. Pleasure horses. They just need a different kind of training. So we’re doing that here.”
“That’s a great idea.” I’d noticed construction equipment and new barns in the distance. I hadn’t expected that development would be for such humane purposes.
“If I make enough profit on one side of the business, it just might support the other. But the farm turned out to be a second chance for me. I guess I liked the idea of giving the Thoroughbreds second chances, too.” He shrugged. “Besides, I got the place for a bargain. But when I tried to give Ted more, he only ended up buying the architectural plans for the next phase of development he’d planned for the farm.”
“So he put the money back into the business, anyhow.”
“Yeah. He’s doing well, too, healthwise. If I don’t keep him updated on the farm, he hounds me for information. I can tell he misses it.”
“And all of a sudden you’re a horse breeder.” I tried to picture all that must have entailed, even as I wondered why Damien felt a debt to the former owner. I could tell he hadn’t just bought the farm for a love of Thoroughbreds. He’d wanted to help out a friend. He’d wanted to give those hard-luck horses a second chance. That said something special about the kind of guy he was. “Although you must have been very familiar with the business if you worked here even as a teenager. You seemed comfortable enough in the birthing stall.”
“I spent a small fortune having a vet by my side for the first few births after Ted left the farm, but I’ve learned what to look for now, so that if everything is going smoothly, I don’t need that level of help.”
“Bekkah’s great,” I observed, shivering involuntarily.
“Are you cold?”
“I’m fine.” I hugged my knees tighter, unwilling to end this conversation and potentially have him drop me off at a local hotel. I couldn’t think about my broken-down SUV and my broken-down life right now.
I needed a break from reporters looking to get a story on me, and digging into my past. Scotty hadn’t told Damien that the Nebraska Backstabber nickname came more from me dating the man my sister later married—an incident that had been widely gossiped about in my small hometown before I left. Tabloid media had latched on to that nickname with both hands, spinning it into a bigger story after my unlikely win.
Little did they know that Rick had only used me to get close to my family, close to my sister, who’d always been “the pretty one.” His defection had hurt when he’d started dating Nina, but I’d gotten over it when I realized he was a bit of a sociopath—a charming liar whose brooding intensity covered a mass of insecurities more widespread than mine. Not that I could convince Nina of that at the time. She’d had to figure it out on her own. The fact that he was trying to connect with me so soon after his divorce did not bode well, but I could be anonymous here.
“Look, Miranda, I’m not going to kick you out if you need a place to stay.” Getting to his feet, Damien offered me a hand. “You were great back there, helping out without being asked.”
I stared at his hand for a moment. Touching him, even in such an innocuous way, seemed like something that would be...significant.
“I didn’t mind.” Carefully, I laid my fingers along his palm, waiting for the pleasure of it to subside into something more tame and appropriate, considering we’d only just met. “It reminded me of home. The nice parts of home, that is.”
My voice hit a husky note that I hoped he would attribute to sentimentality instead of raw attraction. But I was drawn to Damien in a way I’d never been drawn to any other man.
For a woman like me, with the kind of dating history I’d had and the flat-out issues I had with sex and romance, this was a daunting realization. It felt encouraging in some ways, since it meant I still had a sensual fire inside me somewhere. Worrisome in other ways, since I couldn’t imagine how I’d ever act on what I felt.
The attraction seemed exciting and scary at the same time.
“Well, I owe you.” He gave my hand a gentle squeeze once I was on my feet, then let go of my fingers. “And I told you, I’ve got some extra rooms for guests who want to visit their horses on site. Why don’t you stay in one of those tonight?”
I fisted my hand, holding the feel of him tight.
“As much as I hate to impose, that would really help me out.” I wasn’t going to dissemble and try to pretend I would be fine on my own.
Pride goes before a fall, right? Or something like that. I could not afford to be proud about this.
“Sure.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of his pickup. “You need a ride back to your vehicle for a bag?”
“That’d be great.” I followed him toward the truck, hope beating fresh in my heart, along with a girlie awareness of Damien that I could not allow to distract me.
I wanted to have a good working relationship with him for the sake of the tearoom I was determined to have. Plus, I liked the idea of being in his world so I could see what new ideas I might have for Shaelynn’s hero. I might not be able to have him, but my fictional heroine could.
After all, it felt as if he’d walked out of my imagination and into my real life, waking a sleeping sensuality and stirring something...deeply appealing. If that wasn’t a sign I was supposed to be here, I didn’t know what was.
But I drew the line at acting on the heat I was feeling for Damien. Because there was no way I would let my issues with men interfere in what could still be the best business decision of my life.
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