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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Roman couldn't decide if the woman snoring next to him, the approaching storm, or the compliment from Zoya kept him awake. He chuckled. Wasn't sure the girl considered it flattery. She'd praised his physique with the same emotion as she'd thanked him for doing laundry. If any other woman had mentioned his bare chest, he would have taken it as a come on, but not with her.
For the first time since arriving in Arcadia, he'd learned something about her. His mom's old yearbooks were bound to be packed away somewhere in the house. If he found them, maybe he'd figure out Zoya's identity and the reason she came here. Not that it mattered anymore, because it didn't. She needed him... and he liked being needed. Ophelia was old enough to take care of herself now. She didn't need him, not anymore. But Zoya did.
An angry burst of thunder shook the house and lightning ripped the sky apart. The weather report claimed a chance of hail, so he'd taken time to move the girl's car into the shed with his Harley. It'd been a while since he'd weathered a violent storm, but he remembered it like it was yesterday. He and Ophelia had come to spend the last month of summer with Charamel, and the sky had opened and dumped the largest hailstones he'd seen. Once the surge ended, he ran outside to gather the specimens. Charamel kept them in the freezer until Christmas.
The woman next to him, Erica...or was it Erin? He couldn't be sure. The music blasted in the bar so loudly he wasn't certain he'd heard what she said. Easy way around that. He just called her lovey-dovey names. Baby. Honey. Sweetie. Girls liked that. Whoever she was, she snored like a lumberjack.
He needed a smoke and a drink. The girl's voice rang in his ears. Smoke too much. Drink too much. Why do you bring women home? He'd pass on the whiskey and a cigarette. Maybe she was right. He needed to cut down on his bad habits. One vice at a time.
He shifted in bed as the first stone hit the tin roof... then another... and another, until the place sounded like it was being pelted by gunfire. All the while, baby-honey-sweetie kept right on sawing logs. Just as he decided to get up and look outside, a shadow blocked the light show coming through the window.
He blinked, then blinked again, unsure of what he saw. Wrapped in a blanket, Zoya laid down on top of the cover next to him. He scooted over to make room, then propped his head in his hand and tried to keep his voice down, not that it'd wake up sleeping lumberjack. "What the hell are you doing?"
She snuggled into him. "I don't want to be in there by myself."
His heart pounded harder than the hail. A whispered yell proved to be a challenge. "Maybe so, but you can't sleep with me. Did you notice I have a woman in here?"
"You're finished with her."
"How do you know?"
Zoya turned to face him and her breath floated over his neck. "Weeknights, you do it one time. Weekends, multiple times. It's Thursday."
