I never wanted to taste anyone else, ever.
Bellamy shucks off her fur-trimmed parka, the rustling sound of it stealing my attention, and drapes it over the back of the leather couch.
I stiffen. Her tight white long-sleeved thermal hugs her full breasts. Those leggings do the same justice to her pert little ass. My cock jerks in my jeans.
Bellamy’s always been beautiful, but I think her evil superpower is she keeps getting hotter. Sexier.
Thirty will look damn good on her.
Clearing my throat to conceal a groan, I turn away.
I’m a man. A cowboy. It’s called motherfucking control, for Christ’s sake.
One of the walkies blasts from its perch on the kitchen shelf.
Grateful for the distraction, I stomp across the room and grab it up. “Pops? You okay?”
As I turn and prop myself up against the counter, I catch the hint of a smile on Bellamy’s face. She’s always had a soft spot for my father. The feeling is mutual. Back when we were dating, hesaw her sneaking out of my place one morning, offered to cook her breakfast and told her to call him if I ever so much as put a tear in her eye.
“Doin’ just fine. You kids hangin’ in up there?” My father chuckles, too much humor in his tone. “Or should I ask if you’re still alive?”
I press the button on the side of the walkie and respond. “We’re alive.”
“For now,” Bellamy mutters as she hangs up her jacket.
“Gonna close up the tree farm until this storm blows over. If we’re lucky,” he says, sorrow staining his voice, “we’ll still get to open on Christmas Eve.”
I close my eyes. I’ve been dreading this day all year.
“I’ll take care of the horses.” I clear the emotion from my throat. “I can get around on the snowmobile.”
“Stay warm, son.”
Eyes narrowed, Bellamy takes a single step closer. “What was all that about?”
“Nothin’.” I head for the front door and rip it open. “I’m goin’ to get firewood.”
Without another word, I turn my back on Bellamy and head into the flurry of snow and wind. The granite peaks west of us are barely visible by now. Fuck. If we get stuck without heat, we’ll have a hell of a time. I brought a few logs in yesterday, but we’ll need more if this storm continues, and they’ll need time to dry. Working quickly, I gather as much wood as I can. Then I return to the cabin and stack it in the entryway.
By the time I’m finished and wiping snow from my shirtsleeves, Bellamy has removed her boots, and Zelda, traitor that she is, is curled up on the rug, watching her unpack her things. A familiar paint-stained backpack that I know contains easels and art supplies sits in a corner of the room.
The sight of it makes something in my chest wrench.
Fuck.
She came up here to paint. She’s got a whole new life now. Successful. Maybe a man. A boyfriend.
My heart gives a painful lurch. Fuck. I don’t want to know. How she’s moved on without me.
Bellamy plunks a duffel bag on the counter. Out come fancy meats. Cheeses. Nuts.
“What’s that?”
“Girl dinner.”
No wonder she’s so thin.
Scoffing, I stride past her to the fridge. “That’s not dinner. That’s food for mice.”
