“Only thirty times.” Emma hugged her ridiculous yet lovable mother good-bye.
It’d been just the two of them for a while now. Several years after her father had bolted, her beloved Grammy had died right here in the dining room. Choked on chicken, of all things. Aunt Vera lived in Denver, so they only saw her a few times a year.
Emma and her mom had nursed each other through broken hearts and broken dreams. Although the woman could verge on the absurd, Emma loved her mom and would never, ever want to let her down, so she would bite her tongue now and do her best to make her mother happy.
“Drive safely, Mom.”
“I will.” Emma’s mother hugged her again. “This reminds me of the first time my mother left me in charge of the inn so she could go to Santa Fe for her sixty-fifth with her book group ladies. Do you remember that? You were so dependable, even as a teenager. I trust that the inn is in good hands with you, sweetheart. Hopefully this month will pass without a major incident.”
“Yes, let’s do hope.” Emma smiled as she helped her mother into the car, thinking about her mother’s trust. Emma was dependable, yes. But trustworthy? She’d been deceiving her mom for the past few years, so maybe that word no longer applied.
Her mother waved good-bye just as a van pulled into the parking lot. Emma assumed that it was ferrying more of the crew, possibly even the star of the dreaded documentary. Hopefully he wasn’t a prima donna.
Another brisk wind blew a cloud of snow in Emma’s face, forcing her to seek warmth. She hustled inside, past the guys on the porch, and scampered up to her room to run a brush through her hair, knot it into some kind of lumpy bun, and hide the box of her books under her bed.
She drew a breath, enjoying a rare moment of freedom. Her mother didn’t crowd her, per se, but her presence could turn suffocating now and then.
Emma had grown up well aware of her mother’s and Grammy’s expectations. She’d been privy to more than one lecture about the dangers of loose morals. Not that she’d needed it. She’d seen firsthand how lust and temptation screwed up people’s lives—from politicians’ to her own father’s.
Having helplessly watched her mom spiral into a major depression right after he left had certainly changed Emma’s perspective on life and love, and on her mom’s ability to cope with disappointment. Faith in God and Emma’s endless acts of appeasement had pulled her through, but Emma never wanted to see her mom tested again.
So she’d clamped down on any part of herself that resembled her father, even though sometimes the bottled-up passion simmering beneath her skin burned like fingers caught on an oven rack. Her secret fling in Aspen had been necessary to avoid spontaneous combustion.
On her way back downstairs, she heard the murmur of voices and the scuffle of bags coming into the lobby. She dashed around the corner to the welcome desk and then froze. It. Can’t. Be!
Dallas, er—Wyatt. Wyatt Lawson—famed slopestyle snowboard International Games and Rockies Winter eXtreme Games gold medalist, among other titles—stood in her lobby.
She vaguely registered other people, too, but her gaze locked on Wyatt’s exotic face. Although born and raised in Vermont, he looked Brazilian with his wild, wavy black hair that hung to his jaw, his bronzed skin, his dreamy hazel eyes set deeply beneath straight, thick brows. She couldn’t actually see those eyes while staring at his profile, but she still remembered them from their one incredible night together. The one she’d relived over and over while writing and editing her book.
Her heart lodged itself in her throat. Please, God, don’t let him recognize me.
Emma had never told a soul about that night, and would be mortified if her mother or friends ever learned about her brief walk on the wild side. If they knew she’d acted like some kind of cougar, picking up a guy six years her junior. Even she still couldn’t believe she’d done it.
Of course, Wyatt wouldn’t associate Emma with Alexa—the alter ego she’d adopted for a few hours to break free from being Emma Duffy.
Unlike Emma, Alexa had no qualms about her sexuality. Alexa had confidently worn a silky black dress that barely covered her chest and butt. Alexa had rocked high-heeled, knee-high boots, had had her thick, red hair professionally styled, and had worn smoky makeup and loopy earrings. Yes, Alexa had been a bona fide siren that night.
Wyatt had been celebrating his victory when she’d spotted him in the bar. Targeted him, truthfully. Carefree, happy, drunk Wyatt—young and proud and on the prowl. He’d been the perfect man for her singular one-night stand. And they’d had quite a night, until she’d woken at five o’clock and ducked out of his hotel room without a trace.