More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
In their fairytale, he’s the prince. There is no one on Earth more princely than him. His sharp cheekbones and square, clean-shaven jaw are set off by thick, dark brown hair. He’s tan, as if he spends his days outdoors, but that can’t be right because his suit fits his tall, muscular frame like a glove and his hair is too perfect. Which is it? Are you stuck in a boardroom all day or splitting logs in the woods?
He doesn’t smile with interest like most guys would when he notices my unabashed perusal. Instead, he raises one dark brow as if to say, Almost done? and I realize I was wrong before. This one’s not the prince in the fairytale. He’s the dragon.
I can practically hear my stomach groaning in protest: Please, please put some kind of leafy green inside me before you die.
God, he’s so good-looking with that rough edge to him. He’s a man’s man. Broad chest, veined forearms, tall frame. Even now, he’s not smiling. His brows are furrowed and his supple mouth—arguably the only soft thing about him—is marked by a terse frown. It’s like he’s mad at me for putting us in this position, mad at me for making him want to stay.
In any setting, he’d turn heads. In this setting, he captures my full attention.
We make a striking pair: dark features perfectly matched, brown eyes of such varying shades they shouldn’t even be classified as the same color. We’re two beautiful people about to make some very bad decisions.
Oh, you thought we were coming in here to do naughty things? No, I’m actually looking to ugly sob for about thirty minutes while you rock me gently.
He doesn’t kiss me back right away, but I’m persistent, and when he finally does, our awkward, stilted movements turn into something sweeter: a kiss you share with your best guy friend the summer you turn fourteen, a kiss stolen when you know your parents aren’t looking. It’s tender and tentative, nothing but soft lips and unspoken possibilities.
This isn’t a man you use for a night. This is a man you turn your life upside down to be with, one you crawl on hands and knees to please, one who touches you once and brands your soul forever.
I might have initiated our first kiss, but it’s clear that every one that follows will be from him, by him, for him.
What do small-town prostitutes with hardly any experience go for these days? A hundred bucks and a coupon for a free milkshake?
One guy is ferociously tearing into a cinnamon roll, and I think I like him the best of all. If I get hired, I hope we work together.
So, he’s Dwight. I want to ask if he’s the assistant to the project manager.
An owl hoots in a tree nearby and oh my god is that my shadow or a mountain lion?
I’ve never lived with a guy, but I feel like 9 times out of 10 when left alone, they’re up to no good.
Our encounter last month was like a slap to the face. WAKE UP, YOU IDIOT. Look at her! Look at her sitting at the bar and realize that if you don’t crawl over broken glass to get to this woman, you will regret it for the rest of your life. So, I followed her into that bathroom, and I kissed her with an all-consuming need. Her smooth curves pressed against mine, her full lips tempting me toward insanity.
I’ve survived two nights sleeping in the same cabin as him. HIM—I really need to learn his name, but to do that I’d have to talk to him. So, Him is never getting a name. Sorry Him.
Honestly, they should just put me on refreshments like the water boy for a football team. I’d get this crew so hydrated they’d be peeing their pants right along with me.
I’m like Hilary Duff wearing that tiny mask in A Cinderella Story, acting like no one could possibly recognize her. Spoiler: we know it’s you, Hilary. Your mask is one inch wide.
Apparently, I’m not half the asshole I thought I was. It annoys me.
I won’t be seeing Ethan Stone again. No, wait, I will see him once more—in seventy years, when I find his grave and do a little jig on top of it.
“Right, laundry. Fine. Any specifications? Cold water only? Hand-wash delicates?” I resist the urge to ask if I look like the type of man who owns delicates.
I know I’m behaving like an ass. I know it and yet here I am, unable to help myself. To say she gets under my skin is an understatement. It’s as if every bad character trait I possess—jealousy, anger, cruelty—is controlled by one button, and she’s not only found that button, she’s pressing down on it with her full weight and then some.
That’s the problem with guys like Max. He soaks up attention like a sponge and doles out smiles and love to any and everyone, not at all discerning about who the recipients are. It’s a good character trait, don’t get me wrong—no one has a bad word to say about Max—but I’m just not sure I could date someone like him. I’d rather be one in a million than one of a million.
“You’re pestering me right now.” I nearly smile, because I swear he’s teasing me—I mean, no one is this rude—but his beautifully arrogant mask doesn’t crack even a bit. This guy. I swear. “Noted. No more pestering.” I start walking backward and he stands there, watching me. Then I throw up a salute, turn, and head in the direction of the mess hall so I can start brainstorming ways to be useful.
It suddenly hits me that I’m doing something I’ve never done before: living with a woman.
I’m glad she left when she did because otherwise, she’d see me right now, touching the flowers she picked with utter bewilderment, like I’ve never seen flowers before in my entire life. Because, the thing is, deep down, I’m not at all mad that she moved back into the cabin. I’ve wanted her here with me since the beginning. It’s why I had them assign bunkhouses in the first place.
My eyes go to her—as they always do when she enters a room—and I watch as she stalks over and leans down, her head dipping beneath the bunk. Her hair grazes my bare chest. Blood rushes south without my consent. “Just to be clear, anything that happens in this cabin is outside of work. Is that clear? From dusk till dawn, I’ll be sweet and doting, will fulfill your every need—but when we’re in this cabin, don’t expect me to treat you like my boss.”
He likes to take his sweet time putting on his workout clothes so I’m forced to avert my eyes for as long as possible. Because no, he never goes into the bathroom to change. He wants me to ask him to go into the bathroom. He wants me to admit I’m bothered by his naked torso. BUT I AM NOT. I take extra-long showers and steam up the whole cabin, ensuring my body wash is a lingering scent that clogs his nose for hours afterward. I bring in more wildflowers and set them up in jars around the room. That way, wherever he looks, he sees them and therefore has to think of me. It’s beautifully evil.
We floss and brush like we have dentist appointments in an hour and we’re trying to prove we’ve kept up with our oral hygiene since the last time we lied about flossing.
Not only because it would give him untold pleasure, but also because it’s a flat-out lie. In reality, I would never, ever switch rooms. There is one part of life in this cabin that feels like a tiny gift, like the universe is trying to make amends with me. This is it: if I happen to wake up in the middle of the night and need to pee, I get to see Ethan asleep, quiet, nice, tucked in the bottom bunk, cast in moonlight. A bare-chested god, the planes of his hard face relaxed in sleep, he seems somewhat less intimidating but no less handsome. I’m beginning to think my body is waking me up to use
...more
I want to shout every single word I’ve had to keep bottled up all week so that by the end, the walls would blush, but I just don’t have the energy. Being around him zaps it right out of me. I have to be on, aware, and mentally present at all times. He keeps me on my toes, and my toes are tired, and I should not have collapsed onto this bunk because it smells like Ethan. It’s a smell I can’t quite categorize. Normally scents are either good or bad. Some thrust you right back to a favorite memory, like freshly sharpened pencils and elementary school. Ethan’s scent—masculine, woodsy, fresh—makes
...more
I haven’t ever been so heavy-handed with an employee before, but to call Taylor just an employee is a gross understatement. The fact is, I’ve never lived with an employee, which is the only explanation for why it feels like she’s started to entwine herself so deeply in my life.
She’s so beautiful I’m tempted to take up writing poetry, something I’d be piss poor at. Roses are red and violets are another color and I don’t care, just please let me kiss you again. And her personality is so enthralling, so unnervingly spirited that as much as I want to despise her, I can’t seem to actually follow through with it.
“Well good job, big brother, you successfully scared her off. Now what are you going to do? Pick a fight with a baby bunny? Maybe harass a little fawn?”
His sultry gaze is narrowed on my mouth as he says, “I’m fucking exhausted, so no more games. No more pretending I don’t love the way you look in this red bathing suit. No more pretending I don’t hunt for you every time you enter a room. No more pretending your wit and smart mouth aren’t the perfect match for mine.”
His fingers brush against my cheek and then he cups it in his hand, using it to guide my attention back to him. That’s when I realize these feelings surging through me are surging through him too. He’s as consumed by it as I am. He might not have tears rolling down his cheeks, but his eyes are the darkest shade of brown, a compelling mix of longing and adoration. It’s like even now, he’s not fully satisfied, as if being buried this deep isn’t even enough. This one time won’t sate him.
I wrap my arm around her waist. She sits perfectly quiet with her head against my chest. A sudden warmth takes hold of me and I realize I’d want her to stay here like this all day if it were possible.
He looks like a devilish angel up there with the sun outlining him from behind and his dimpled smirk softening his handsome features. The oxymoron never fit a soul better.
