Linebacker’s Second Chance(65)
Better not. You’re no good with a man, Cadence. And this one has so much money it’ll hang over you every day you’re with him. Just paint and try not to look too deep into his eyes.
He opens a door at the very end of the hallway and ushers me into the room. When he flicks on the light, I gasp. On the far wall, there’s a huge painting, maybe seven or eight feet wide and just as high. If I look at it one way, it looks like the ocean, but if I turn my head to the side, it looks like the sky with pricks of white light mixed through the deep blues and aquas the artist used. The quilts on the four-poster bed match the painting almost exactly, and the rug in here is a light sky blue, contrasting with the dark floors.
“I had the designer just put things in here to match the painting. I know more about painting than any other type of artsy stuff, so I let her do what she wanted. Thought an artist might like this room. Occurred to me when you walked in.”
I smile. “I do. It’s beautiful. Is the guest house this nice?”
“Oh. Oh yeah. It’s nice too. It just needs some TLC. Should be up and running in about a week.” He runs his fingers through his thick, dark hair and turns to walk out. “I’ll let you get some sleep. I’ll take you by the building tomorrow. Go on and get comfortable, Miss Cadence.” He winks at me and walks toward the door, Eliza following close behind. His departure is abrupt, but I guess it’s appropriate since it’s almost one in the morning. I gulp, though, and wonder if I did anything to offend him. “Night,” he says.
“Night. Thanks for the room.”
“My pleasure,” he says.
The way he says it sounds almost dirty, and that simple word threatens to undo me completely.
Later, after putting on a nightshirt and brushing my teeth in the grand, marble bathroom, it takes me a long damn time to fall asleep.
Because I’m thinking of Rowan and wondering exactly what his pleasure might be.
CHAPTER FOUR
Even after I’ve tended the horses and ridden up over one of the trails with the new mare, unsaddled and brushed her, Cadence is still asleep. I check my watch.
“Eight in the morning, nearly. Dammit, and it’s later in New York.” I laugh. She’s a city girl and an artist, probably used to setting her own schedule. I take my boots off and set them in the mudroom next to the kitchen. I should probably see about the quarterly taxes, or the damn fundraising event next week for Coming Home, but hell, I can barely see straight I’m so hungry. Normally, it’d be a green shake and protein for the day before heading into Ruidoso to meet with the board of directors. But the week after Thanksgiving is always quiet, even for a nonprofit.
And maybe Cadence’s mural can wait, at least until she’s been fed. They might have served her dinner on the plane, but it wasn’t my jet so there’s no way of knowing if she ate good or not. Even if she’s an artist, she might need a little nourishment to get her gears going.
Eliza Doolittle greets me with a little bark at the door of the kitchen and then comes to settle in at her bed under the table. Joanna had that bed made for her and embroidered with the dog’s full name. Hell, Eliza loves that damn bed, but she never could stand a hair on Joanna’s head.
“You got more sense than I have, Liza,” I say. She looks at me quizzically and then glances at the refrigerator like she’s reminding me I need to make breakfast. “You’ll get a slice of bacon out of this, just maybe.” I open the door to the fridge and pull out eggs, Eliza’s favorite bacon, and the bread dough that I started the other day.
“And this bread mix should be just about ready, girl, but you don’t get any bread. Just bacon. Never thought I’d have a gluten-intolerant dog, but that goes to show you that I don’t know everything, do I Eliza?” I set the dough on the island in the middle of the kitchen and step into my Uggs. I think back to Cadence’s reaction and stifle a laugh. Who says a billionaire can’t keep his feet warm? We don’t all wear smoking jackets and have a full closet of Armani or whatever the hell my brother Dylan has.
I get out the cast iron skillet and turn on the flame of the gas stove. I empty the rasher of bacon in the pan and listen as it starts to sizzle. That smell ought to wake anybody up, and if it doesn’t, I bet the smell of fresh bread will do the trick. I knead the dough out and form it into a loaf before placing it into one of the many Le Creuset dutch ovens that Joanna bought but never used. I rub it with salt and olive oil and put it into the oven to do its thing and rise like it should. The dog gets up and comes to my side.