“That’s not ideal,” he says with a sigh and pushes his hand through his hair, but then shrugs a shoulder. “But we’ll figure it out. I couldn’t get UberEats to find any restaurants on my app earlier.”
I laugh now, delighted with him.
“No UberEats in the boonies, Mr. Stone. But my offer for dinner tonight still stands if you like. I’ll be in the Ponderosa unit again. You’re welcome to join me.”
He thinks it over for a moment and then nods. “I’d like that. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I lead him back down to the kitchen. “Well, I guess I’ll leave you to it. Have a good day.”
“Jenna.”
I turn to see him standing there, tall and broad, his hands in his pockets again as he watches me with those wary blue eyes.
“Yes?”
“My name isn’t really Flint Stone.”
“I know.” I open the door and then turn back to him before shutting it behind me. “Have a good day, Christian.”
The smirk on his face is the last thing I see before I close the door and walk back to the Ponderosa. Snow is falling again in huge, light flakes that stick to my eyelashes and hair.
I love it.
I walk into the tree house and sigh. Man, we did a number on the place last night. You’d think we were back in college.
I grin, ready to roll up my sleeves and get to work cleaning up.
It was so worth it.
***
“What are you doing?” I ask Max as I stir the pasta and keep an eye on the marinara I’ve had simmering all afternoon. I wipe my hands on my red apron as I shift back and forth between the boiling pasta and the simmering red sauce.
“Calling you,” he says, his voice dry. “What are you doing?”
“I’m making dinner. I offered to feed my tenant tonight since the restaurants don’t open up here until tomorrow.”
“That was nice of you,” he says with a sigh.
“Why did you just sigh like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re irritated or disappointed or something.”
He laughs, and I put him on speaker and set the phone down so I can butter the bread with two hands. “I’m not any of those things. I just think you’re too nice sometimes. It’s not like she couldn’t come to town to have dinner.”
“It’s a he,” I reply absentmindedly.
“Come again?”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, Max, it’s not like he’s a rapist or a serial killer or something.”
“Who is it?”
“I’m not telling.” I frown as I set the colander in the sink and dump the pasta, draining it. “I have an obligation to my guests’ privacy.”
“You’re not a lawyer or a doctor.”
“I still take it seriously, so I’m not telling you who it is. But don’t worry, I’m fairly certain that I could do that Vulcan neck pinch thing or something if push comes to shove.”
“Not funny,” Max replies.
“Do not come up here and try to save me from something imaginary,” I warn him, shaking my finger at the phone.
“I can’t. I had to fly to California today.”
Ironic. Christian came from California, and Max went there.
“How long will you be gone?” I ask.
“Just a few days. Week at the most. Will you pick up my mail for me?”
“You seriously need an assistant.”
“No, I don’t, I have you,” he says with a laugh, and I flip him off, even though he can’t see it. “Put your finger away.”
“Are you psychic?”
“Yes,” he says. “Please grab my mail for me, and I won’t call Brad and tell him to come up to the tree houses armed.”
Brad is our police chief brother, and he’d absolutely do something like that.
“You wouldn’t.”
“Oh, try me, baby sister.”
“You’re a pain in the ass, Max Hull. But, of course, I’ll get the mail. Am I going to have to chase a woman out of there this time?”
I can practically hear him cringe. He’d forgotten about the woman sleeping in his bed the last time he went out of town. She’d set up house in Max’s place while he was gone.
Until I found her there and practically dragged her out by her long, red hair.
“Learned that lesson. Be careful, Jenna.”
“Love you, too. Bye.”
I hit end and turn around. “Holy shit!”
“Sorry.” Christian holds up his hands in surrender. “I didn’t want to interrupt your phone call. The door was open.”
I brace my hand over my heart and catch my breath.
“Scared the hell out of me.”
“I’m really sorry,” he says and smiles cautiously. “And whoever that was is right. You should be careful.”
“Gonna off me?” I ask and return to stirring the sauce. “That might be bad for your image.”
He shoves his hands into his pockets, his blue eyes laughing. He’s wearing the same jeans from this morning, but he changed into a grey sweatshirt that hugs his arms nicely.
“You could be right,” he says. “You changed out of your pajamas.”
I snort and check on the garlic bread toasting in the oven. “Of course, I did.”
“I kind of liked them, but the black sweater works, too,” he replies with a small shrug, his lips turning up with a grin. “How can I help?”
“I’m done here. I didn’t know what you like, but I figured spaghetti is usually a sure bet.”
“I did cardio today, so pasta would be great.” He accepts a heaping plate from me and snags a slice of warm garlic bread, as well.
“I’m a casual girl. How do you feel about sitting in the living room?”
“Lead the way,” he replies. We settle in the living room, him on the couch and me in the big rocking chair facing him. We eat in silence for a long minute, too busy chewing to talk.
“Why did you continue to call me Mr. Stone this morning, even though you knew that wasn’t my name?”
“Hey, if you want to be Flint Stone, who am I to tell you that you can’t be?” I take a bite of bread. “You booked the unit under that name, I assumed that’s what you wanted to be called.”
“My manager booked it,” he says, looking down at his half-eaten meal. The muscles in his jaw flex as he chews.
Under different circumstances, I might be tempted to bite him there.
“She always books things for me under false names,” he continues. “It’s a running joke.”
“It’s pretty funny.” I lick my fork and smile when I notice his eyes dilate as he watches me. “Do you like your space?”
“It’s great,” he says. “I admit, when she said I’d be staying at a tiny resort in Montana, I pictured it being much more—”
“Rustic?”
He nods.
“There are plenty of those places here, but I wanted to build something for people like me. I’m picky when I travel. I like to stay in nice places, but I also like to soak in the local charm.”
“I’d say you hit the nail on the head with these,” he says with a nod. “I know plenty of people who would rent these out.”
“That’s the goal, Mr. Stone.” He laughs, and my stomach clenches. Christian Wolfe has a great laugh. “Word of mouth is the best marketing there is.”
“Are these the only ones you own?”
“No, I have rental properties all over town. I just purchased a piece of property up in the national park earlier this year. Once the snow clears in the spring, I’m going to build one more tree house up there.”
“An entrepreneur.”
“Indeed.”
“Are you originally from here?” he asks, and he seems genuinely interested. I’m enjoying the company, so I fill him in on my roots here in Montana.
“Yes, and I have two brothers. Max was the guy you heard on the phone. He’s always in and out of here on business. And my other brother, Brad, is the police c
hief in town.
“We are fourth-generation locals.”
“Wow,” Christian replies. “That’s cool.”
“I think so, too. Are you from L.A.?”
A change happens now. A subtle shift. His body tenses, but he doesn’t miss a beat in his answer.
“No, my family is from Tennessee, but we moved to L.A. when I was young.”
It sounds like a recording. Like this is the answer he’s been trained to give, over and over again.
“Do you ever go back to Tennessee?”
“Not often.” He shakes his head.
“Can I ask you a question?”
He blinks rapidly and seems to steel himself for the onslaught of questions that I’m sure he gets every day.
“Okay.”
“Do you want dessert? I made huckleberry turnovers with some leftover berries that I had in the freezer.”
He blinks again. “That’s the question?”
“Yeah. It’s an important question, Christian. I don’t want to eat it by myself.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had huckleberries before.”
“You’re in for a treat,” I promise him as I stand and take his empty plate and walk into the kitchen. “They’re a local berry. I think they mostly only grow in the Pacific Northwest area. Their growing season is short, so we pick all we can in the summer and freeze them.”
“I’d love to try them.”
I turn to find him standing at the island, smiling at me.
“Do you want ice cream with it?”
“Of course.”
“You’re my kind of people,” I say and take the turnovers out of the warming drawer of the oven, scoop out the ice cream, and we settle in our spots in the living room again. “So, why a whole month here? Are you running from the FBI? The CIA? The IRS?”
“No,” he says, laughing. “I’m going to learn how to ski for a movie role.”
“That’s cool, but you’re athletic. I’m not going to lie, Christian, I’ve seen some of your movies. I’d guess that you could learn to ski in a week.”
“I need to look like I was born on the slopes. Like it’s second nature to me.”
“Makes sense.” I lick my spoon and nod. “So, you’ll be spending a lot of time on skis.”
“That’s the plan.”
“Do you have an instructor lined up? I know the owner of the resort if not, and he could set you up with someone excellent.”
“Nina already arranged it.”
“Who’s Nina?”
His lips twitch. “My manager. And my sister.”
“Ah, yes, I remember her name from her email.” I set my empty plate aside and lean back, my belly blissfully full. “Good God, stick a fork in me.”
“You fed us a lot of carbs.”
“Comfort food.” I shrug. “I didn’t know what to expect with you.”
“Same here.” He stands, sets our plates in the sink and stuffs his hands back into his pockets. “I should go. I’m meeting the instructor at six.”
“In the a.m.?”
“That’s the one.”
“Yikes.” I stand and walk him to the door. “Well, good luck tomorrow.”
“Thanks for dinner.” He stops in front of me and is so close I could lean in and kiss his chest. I can feel the heat coming off of him, and the thought of walking right into his arms and feeling him wrap around me sounds like absolute heaven.
But he’s a stranger. He’s famous. He’s only here for four weeks.
And he has a girlfriend.
I clearly need to date more.
“Jenna?”
“Yeah?”
He laughs. “I said thanks for dinner.”
“Oh, you’re welcome.” I wave him off and tuck my hair behind my ear. “See you later.”
“Later.” He winks and hurries away, and I’m left a quivering, lust-filled mess.
It’s going to be a long month.
Chapter Two
~CHRISTIAN~
“ARE YOU TRYING TO kill me?” I join my instructor, Chad, at the bottom of the run and shove my goggles up onto my helmet, catching my breath. “This is the first day.”
“You’re a natural,” he says and pats my shoulder. “You’re way past the bunny hill, dude.”
“I think that one was a black diamond,” I reply and watch a couple of girls walk by, giving me the side-eye.
Yeah, it’s me.
“And you handled it like a champ,” he says. “We’ll do one of those at the end of each day, and they get harder.”
“Awesome.”
Actually, it is awesome. The quiet, the cold, the snow. I’ve quickly discovered why skiing is so popular.
I’ve fallen in love with it in less than six hours.
“Let’s go into the lodge before you leave,” Chad suggests and pushes off on his skis, leading me to a huge building in the heart of the small village. “I want to introduce you to Bax. He owns the place.”
Jenna mentioned him last night. I follow Chad, stepping out of my skis and swinging them up onto my shoulder to walk with him.
Once inside, I’m met by more people and the smell of freshly baked cookies, coming from the large tray sitting by the man-sized fireplace in the foyer.
“Bax,” Chad says, and a man standing at the front desk turns to us. He’s dressed casually in jeans and a North Face sweatshirt. “This is Christian.”
“I knew it,” a woman says from across the room, and I give her a wave with my signature grin, then turn my attention to the man before me, hoping that the fan and her friend don’t come over for photos.
“Pleasure,” he says. “I’m Jacob Baxter, the owner of Whitetail Mountain.”
“The whole mountain?” I ask.
“Aside from the private residences, yes,” he says. “The resort is mine.”
He has a British accent, and I want to know all about how he came to own this resort in Montana, but I hold my questions. We’re being watched, and most likely filmed, and I’d like to get back to the tree house.
“Thanks for loaning me Chad this month,” I say. “He’s awesome.”
“He is,” Jacob replies with a nod. “Let me know if you need anything. Are you staying nearby?”
“In Jenna’s tree houses,” I reply with a nod, and Jacob’s head tilts. “What did I say?”
“Nothing, I’m just surprised my wife didn’t say something. She’s a fan and a good friend of Jenna’s. I figured Jenna would have said something.”
She just had Flint Stone on her schedule. But the fact that she hasn’t called Jacob’s wife since last night is interesting.
“Well, I’d be happy to say hello to your wife sometime.”
Jacob smiles. “You’re not working here, Christian. If she’s around, that would be nice, but this isn’t a photo op. My staff has been instructed to be cool. We get quite a few celebrities here, so it’s not usually an issue, but I reminded all of them. However, I can’t control the clients.”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t have security,” Jacob replies quietly, his face sober.
“No,” I admit and push my hand through my hair, then remember we’re being watched and smile confidently. “I’ll be okay. Thank you, though, for thinking of it.”
“Let us know if you need anything.” He turns to Chad. “Keep me posted.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jacob shakes my hand and then marches away, and I immediately lead Chad outside. Staying in one place too long invites people into your bubble.
Always stay on the move.
“I’m calling it a day,” I say and offer my hand to shake. “Thanks again for today. Same time tomorrow?”
“We’re going to have to push it back to seven,” he says grimly. “I know we want to get most of the lesson in before we have a huge crowd, but the sun doesn’t come up that early this time of year, and now that you have your gear, we’ll hit the powder quickly.”
“Seven it is, then. See you tomorrow.
”
I walk over to the tree house, glancing around to make sure that I’m not being followed, lean my skis in the area provided just inside, stow my boots, and shed the rest of my gear. I spent about two thousand dollars on all of this today, and I have to admit, it’s pretty badass.
Speaking of badass, staying at a ski-in, ski-out place is convenient. This gear is heavy. I walk into the kitchen and immediately open the fridge for a bottle of water. I pop the top and guzzle it down before tossing the bottle into the recycle bin and reaching for another.
Skiing is done for today, but I still have an hour workout ahead of me.
Staying in shape is vital. I’ve been a physical actor my whole life. Whether it be action roles, dancing roles, or even drama pieces that require me to show my body, I have to be in top physical condition.
I drop to the floor and easily pound out fifty push-ups, then turn over and do fifty sit-ups.
Take a sip of water and move smoothly into burpees.
The only downside of staying at a small resort is that there’s no gym. The skiing works my legs nicely and is great cardio, but I have to work on my upper body, as well.
I’ll have Nina send me dumbbells.
Speaking of Nina, I’m in a three-minute plank when my phone miraculously rings on the floor next to my elbow. Rather than risk dropping the call, I hit accept and put it on speaker.
“Hey.”
“You’re alive! Jesus H. Christ, Christian, I was positive you’d been eaten by a bear or fell off that mountain.”
“And I’m the actor in the family,” I mutter and sit, sipping my water. “I have shit reception up here. But I have Wi-Fi, so texts and email will work.”
“Actually, that’s perfect. I told you to go up there and relax, and if your phone isn’t blowing up all the time, all the better. How is it?”
“Snowy. Cold. But the tree house is cool, and the people are nice so far.”
“Have you been recognized?”
“What do you think?”
“Was it awful?”
“Actually, no. I got some looks, but no one approached me. It’s pretty chill here.”
“I’ll cross my fingers that it stays that way,” she says with a sigh. “I told everyone that you’re preparing for a role, so it’s pretty quiet here, too. But I have the team working your social media, and I’ll make sure all correspondence goes through me. I’ll just shoot you a daily email, and if something needs your immediate attention, I’ll call.”