Too bad every time he’d closed his eyes, his imagination had gone into torture mode.
Probably what he got for trading six months of so-called marriage for a hunk of land that he’d been wanting ever since he’d assumed control of the Flying J after his dad died. Jasper Chilton had been more than happy to keep the Flying J just as it had been when he’d taken it over from his father.
But not Russ.
Hell, no. He had to want more, and look where it had landed him.
Promising to marry a woman no more suitable for him than Nola had been.
At least this time his eyes were wide-open. He was more than a decade older than the twenty-one-year-old kid he’d been back then, and no ridiculous notions of love were clouding his brain these days. Who knew what would happen? Maybe the next six months would be far less torturous than the two years of wedded “bliss” that he and Nola had shared before she’d permanently hared off back to the bosom of her Bostonian family.
Most importantly, this time he’d be able to keep what he wanted out of the deal.
Half of the Hopping H was a poor comparison for the loss of the son he never saw anymore, but it was the only positive note on the horizon as far as Russ could see.
So he’d take what he could get.
Even if it meant playing house for a while with Melanie McFarlane.
He pushed off the couch and found coffee makings in the kitchen, probably taking too much pleasure in the noise he was making while he was about it. But if she wanted to know more what ranching life was supposed to be about, she’d damn sure better get used to rising with the chickens.
He’d built himself up a fine head of steam about the matter by the time the coffeepot was half full. He yanked out the pot, stuck his mug beneath the steaming stream from the coffeemaker until it was full, then stuck the pot back in place. Feeling stifled inside the cozy cabin, he shoved open the wide door that led out onto the wraparound-style porch and went outside, mug in hand.
The cold doused him from bare feet to bare head, and he let out a long sigh.
As far as his eye could see were signs that Thunder Canyon would never again be the hometown where he’d grown up. There were more schools. More shopping centers. More this. More that.
Even now, despite the early hour, he could see the dots of people working their way along the ski slopes even though the lift wasn’t yet running. From one of the resort’s restaurants—probably the Grubstake—he could already smell the scent of frying bacon.
His stomach rumbled.
Too many beers last night and not enough food.
Another thing that would be easy to blame on her.
Only his parents hadn’t raised him to shuck off his own responsibilities. Melanie hadn’t held a gun to his head.
He’d jumped without a parachute after the carrot she’d dangled all on his own.
“Good Lord. Have you lost your mind? It’s freezing out there.”
He looked over his shoulder at her. “Well, well. If it isn’t the future Mrs. Chilton.”
Her lips turned down at the corners. “I don’t recall agreeing to change my name.”
He actually hadn’t expected otherwise, but why let her know that? “There ain’t no staff people hanging around here to serve you coffee.”
Her eyes with those thick dark lashes narrowed. Her hair was slightly rumpled and she was bundled to her chin in the massive red blanket from the bed. It ought to have clashed with her auburn hair—he’d learned such things thanks to Nola’s clotheshorse ways—but it didn’t. If anything, Melanie looked…too damned tasty.
Soft. Sleepy. Female.
And everything inside him stirred annoyingly to life.
He looked away at the snowy mountainside. Cold was definitely a good thing. “You want some, get it yourself. It’s hot in the kitchen,” he finished.
“I don’t drink coffee.” Her voice was snooty again. “And you’re letting in all the cold air.”
He didn’t look back at the rustle of bedding that preceded the not-so-soft slam of the door. He pulled out the napkin from his back pocket and squinted at the splotchy lines of writing they’d made on it the night before. In the cold sober morning light, his signature was even more of a scrawl than usual, and her neat penmanship showed some decided unevenness.
No hanky-panky.
She’d even underlined it. Twice.
Muttering an oath not only at himself but at the universe in general, he tucked the napkin back in his pocket, then leaned his forearms on the rail of the deck and glared at the million-dollar view.
“Happy wedding day, Russ,” he muttered under his breath. “Welcome back to hell.”
Chapter Four
Melanie would have liked to have locked that door between her and Russ J. Chilton, leaving him stewing out there in the frigid air.
But a frozen stick of ice wasn’t going to be able to teach her what she needed to know to keep the Hopping H from falling apart before she could even open its first guest cabin. So she kept her itchy fingers from flipping the lock and returned to the bedroom where she did lock the door.
Not that he’d be likely to break it down anytime soon. The man couldn’t be clearer where his distaste for her was concerned. She hoped he would manage to get that under some control, at least when they were around other people.
She washed up, touching her lips with some gloss from her small purse and dashing her comb through her hair, then pulled on her dress from the night before, wrinkling her nose a little at the smell of cigarette smoke that clung to the fabric. Unfortunately, her bra and panties were still damp and since Russ was still out on the porch when she left the bedroom, she quickly shoved them into the deep side pocket of her mink. Then she pulled on the coat, pushed her bare feet into her shoes, and yanked open the door again.
He was leaning over, elbows bent atop the rail, displaying those ridiculously wide, bare shoulders again, and—drat it all—a very fine denim-covered rear.
She wished she’d worn her panties and bra after all, damp or not. Because even if he didn’t know she didn’t have a stitch on beneath her dress, she did. “Are you going to lollygag there all day, or what?”
He sent her a slow look over his bare shoulder that had an annoying jolt curling low through her abdomen. “Anxious to find a justice of the peace, are you?”
She flipped up the collar of her coat, holding it closely together beneath her chin. “I’d like to go home and change first. But, yes, the sooner we start, the sooner you’ll be the proud owner of more land.”
“And we’ll be free of each other.”
“Exactly.”
He straightened and walked past her, leaning his head close to hers as he went. “We’re just a match made in heaven,” he murmured.
She managed to hold her ground. “At least we both know what we want out of the deal,” she returned as he came inside.
She was waiting by the door, purse in hand, when he came back out of the bedroom a short time later, his hair damp and slicked back from his face, and his naked chest once more hidden beneath that thick ivory wool. “I cleaned out the coffeemaker,” she told him before he went into the kitchen, presumably to take care of the matter himself.
“Without breaking a fingernail?” He grabbed his coat but didn’t bother to pull it on. “Someone should give you an award.”
“This will be considerably easier if you could stow your foul humor for a while.”