Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 70551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
“It’s a he,” I reply absentmindedly.
“Come again?”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, Max, it’s not like he’s a rapist or a serial killer or something.”
“Who is it?”
“I’m not telling.” I frown as I set the colander in the sink and dump the pasta, draining it. “I have an obligation to my guests’ privacy.”
“You’re not a lawyer or a doctor.”
“I still take it seriously, so I’m not telling you who it is. But don’t worry, I’m fairly certain that I could do that Vulcan neck pinch thing or something if push comes to shove.”
“Not funny,” Max replies.
“Do not come up here and try to save me from something imaginary,” I warn him, shaking my finger at the phone.
“I can’t. I had to fly to California today.”
Ironic. Christian came from California, and Max went there.
“How long will you be gone?” I ask.
“Just a few days. Week at the most. Will you pick up my mail for me?”
“You seriously need an assistant.”
“No, I don’t, I have you,” he says with a laugh, and I flip him off, even though he can’t see it. “Put your finger away.”
“Are you psychic?”
“Yes,” he says. “Please grab my mail for me, and I won’t call Brad and tell him to come up to the tree houses armed.”
Brad is our police chief brother, and he’d absolutely do something like that.
“You wouldn’t.”
“Oh, try me, baby sister.”
“You’re a pain in the ass, Max Hull. But, of course, I’ll get the mail. Am I going to have to chase a woman out of there this time?”
I can practically hear him cringe. He’d forgotten about the woman sleeping in his bed the last time he went out of town. She’d set up house in Max’s place while he was gone.
Until I found her there and practically dragged her out by her long, red hair.
“Learned that lesson. Be careful, Jenna.”
“Love you, too. Bye.”
I hit end and turn around. “Holy shit!”
“Sorry.” Christian holds up his hands in surrender. “I didn’t want to interrupt your phone call. The door was open.”
I brace my hand over my heart and catch my breath.
“Scared the hell out of me.”
“I’m really sorry,” he says and smiles cautiously. “And whoever that was is right. You should be careful.”
“Gonna off me?” I ask and return to stirring the sauce. “That might be bad for your image.”
He shoves his hands into his pockets, his blue eyes laughing. He’s wearing the same jeans from this morning, but he changed into a grey sweatshirt that hugs his arms nicely.
“You could be right,” he says. “You changed out of your pajamas.”
I snort and check on the garlic bread toasting in the oven. “Of course, I did.”
“I kind of liked them, but the black sweater works, too,” he replies with a small shrug, his lips turning up with a grin. “How can I help?”
“I’m done here. I didn’t know what you like, but I figured spaghetti is usually a sure bet.”
“I did cardio today, so pasta would be great.” He accepts a heaping plate from me and snags a slice of warm garlic bread, as well.
“I’m a casual girl. How do you feel about sitting in the living room?”
“Lead the way,” he replies. We settle in the living room, him on the couch and me in the big rocking chair facing him. We eat in silence for a long minute, too busy chewing to talk.
“Why did you continue to call me Mr. Stone this morning, even though you knew that wasn’t my name?”
“Hey, if you want to be Flint Stone, who am I to tell you that you can’t be?” I take a bite of bread. “You booked the unit under that name, I assumed that’s what you wanted to be called.”
“My manager booked it,” he says, looking down at his half-eaten meal. The muscles in his jaw flex as he chews.
Under different circumstances, I might be tempted to bite him there.
“She always books things for me under false names,” he continues. “It’s a running joke.”
“It’s pretty funny.” I lick my fork and smile when I notice his eyes dilate as he watches me. “Do you like your space?”
“It’s great,” he says. “I admit, when she said I’d be staying at a tiny resort in Montana, I pictured it being much more—”
“Rustic?”
He nods.
“There are plenty of those places here, but I wanted to build something for people like me. I’m picky when I travel. I like to stay in nice places, but I also like to soak in the local charm.”
“I’d say you hit the nail on the head with these,” he says with a nod. “I know plenty of people who would rent these out.”
“That’s the goal, Mr. Stone.” He laughs, and my stomach clenches. Christian Wolfe has a great laugh. “Word of mouth is the best marketing there is.”
“Are these the only ones you own?”
“No, I have rental properties all over town. I just purchased a piece of property up in the national park earlier this year. Once the snow clears in the spring, I’m going to build one more tree house up there.”