Zoya Hart has been eluding her gold-digging stepmother for the last few years. Knowing that this woman will do anything to gain control of her and her late father's company, Zoya finds herself hiding out on a farm. Now, with a PI on her trail, Zoya'...
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After work on Sunday, Zoya parked in the drive but didn't go inside. Roman's truck wasn't there, so he'd probably gone into town to find another fuck buddy. Instead, she took a sketch pad and hurried to the treehouse. Still fuming about the invasion of privacy, for dinner, she'd let him fend for himself.
Multiplying her monthly payment was his way of telling her he knew she had money. Or, it might be the other way. He didn't know about the stash and by increasing her expense, hoped she'd look for something cheaper. Her brain hurt from thinking about it. Paranoia either way. Even though she'd never gotten the photos in the can mixed up, it was a possibility. If Dad were here, he'd say not to read so much into things. He'd flash the smile he reserved just for her and use all those clichés he loved to spout. It is what it is. Don't make a chicken out of a feather. She'd always hated when he did that, but now longed to hear the comfort of those corny platitudes. A tear trickled down her cheek; She wiped it away and inhaled deeply, then released a slow, steady breath. Crying won't change anything.
The sun began to set and a veil of deep purple draped the top of the forest like a new bride. Zoya loved this time of day when everything hushed and settled. Trees whispered their secrets, and the wind gathered the world's wishes and carried them to the heavens.
She'd stalled long enough. Closing her tablet, she stuck the pencil behind her ear and climbed down the ladder. Even from this distance, the fragrant aroma of essential oils permeated the air. Just like every night, Mariana was making soap. Zoya wished there was something she could do to help her friend get her products into the right hands. She'd convinced her to get a website, and that was a start. Once she got the packaging designs finished and Mariana got them photographed, she'd be able to establish an online presence, and one step closer to her dream of having her own garage.
As she emerged from the woods, Zoya didn't expect to see Roman's truck, but it was there. So was his Harley. Sunday nights must not be prime time for picking up women—unless he attended the prayer meeting, and he didn't seem the type.
No sound came from inside the house, so she entered quietly. It was only eight o'clock, but perhaps the previous two nights of wild sex had caught up with him and he'd turned in early. She went to tend the cats, then to the kitchen. A box of crackers sat on the counter while a dirty bowl and spoon cluttered the sink. On the stove, a pan and empty can. He'd made his own meal but left the cleanup.
On the back porch, a shadow got her attention. Roman. Her breath caught. Even with his back to her, his action was clear. He stood at the railing, peeing. Ugh.
He finished, zipped, and started toward his chair, but caught her staring. Her face burned. She twirled, grabbed the cracker box, and rushed to the pantry as he came inside. She looked at the pantry in disarray. It shouldn't be like this, so out of order. Her cheeks flamed hotter. She grasped a can in each hand and spun on him. "This is not right! This is not right!" She moved things around, clanking containers as she rearranged them.
