that he looked like the Scott I used to know. Tilting my head, I offered him a fake one instead. The retaliation brainstorm, I’d conduct later. Possibly frame him for murder. It was worth considering. Not before he signed that marriage certificate, though. And not before I was named CEO.
“Leave your shoes there.” He jerked his chin at a copper mud tray lying next to the front door he pushed open. It wasn’t locked and why would it be? There wasn’t anything other than cow shit, solitude, and wildlife in the hundred-mile radius.
I toed off my now brown sneakers and peeled off my muddy socks, entering with a strong dose of dread swirling in my gut. Judging by the exterior, there couldn’t be more than three full rooms in the cabin. I looked around; an exercise that took all of a second to determine I was wrong. Only two full rooms––the living area and a single bedroom across the way.
“It’s not much but it’s comfortable.” He gestured, sweeping his arm from the stone wood-burning fireplace to the kitchen located on the opposite side of the room, a handful of feet away. Shamefully, the first thought that occurred to me was…this is where he hosts his orgies?
Because the place was small. Shabby and small. The furniture was, hmm, best way to describe it would be bachelor-on-a budget. It reminded me of my college days. The leather couch was worn out. The square table in the corner with four mismatched chairs looked second-hand. The giant flat-screen television that hung on the wall seemed to be the only item purchased in this decade.
This was so odd. So very un-Scott like.
He waltzed in, cutting across the living room to enter through an open door on the other side, which was technically, only a few feet. With great reluctance, I followed. His bedroom was so small two people could barely move around in there. No orgies in this bedroom. There wasn’t much in the way of furniture. A sad wooden chair sat next to a dresser with a few missing knobs. A king-sized bed with a cheap navy-blue comforter and two lumpy pillows. Thea had once mentioned that he slept on a fifty-thousand-dollar handmade mattress imported from Sweden. This was definitely not the one. He’d made the bed though. That was something.
“So, um, where will I be sleeping?” The question was begging to be asked because no way, no how were we sharing a bed.
“On the couch,” he suggested. And that’s exactly what it sounded like––a suggestion. Although it was obvious by his expression that his choice would’ve been anywhere outside the state of Wyoming. “I have an inflatable mattress if you prefer. Stacked washer/dryer is in the kitchen,” he continued with a completely straight face. It wasn’t even an exaggeration. The washer/dryer was located right next to the stove. Little did he know I’d slept in worse places.
“And where should I set up my computer? The printer? My work area?”
I’d be video conferencing with all the department heads at least once a day. Not to mention Frank and the board members and my executive team. A work space was more important than where I slept.
“The table.” He shrugged and crossed his arms over bulging pecs. If he was waiting for me to lose it and run screaming from this cabin, he’d be waiting forever. I nodded and went to check out the electric outlet instead.
“What’s the cable and WIFI situation out here? I’m getting spotty coverage on my phone.”
“It’s not the best.”
“You don’t mind if I get my tech guy out here to look at it, do you? I know you wouldn’t want to jeopardize company business,” I asked with a jaunty smile.
His blue eyes narrowed a fraction. “Knock yourself out.”
“No need. I’ll just get my tech guy out here.” More smiling. “Now, if you don’t mind. I’d like to use the bathroom.”
Scott motioned with his head and frowned when I walked by, our shoulders brushing. As soon as I made it past him, I caught a trace of his scent. Sandalwood, a touch of bergamot…musk.
It was the same scent that had claimed my attention earlier that morning when I’d opened the door only to be harassed by his virility. He’d crossed into my personal space, as he’s wont to do, before I had a chance to retreat. One sniff was all it took for the memory to come flooding back. I’d been cursed with a highly developed sense of smell, and the same