1. Ignacia

Chapter one

Ignacia

I gnacia Sutherby may be my not-so-real name, but my legit toxic trait is that I let strangers sleep in my bed for money.

Hot bedding.

Okay, maybe it’s not that bad if people let me explain what the hell is hot bedding. I suppose I do it differently than most people, though. Yes, I’m careful. And no, nothing funky ever goes down. There are contracts and cameras for mutual protection. What’s more, all my clients are old, sweet, and harmless. How did it come to this? Well, a girl has needs.

Mine happen to be that I’d like to keep the run-down acreage I bought under a fake name when I fled the state and city from my scammer slash abusive ex and not lose it to the ravages of time. Time ravages are really a thing.

No one tells you that bugging out, getting a fake ID, going into hiding, and assuming a new life isn’t as fun as it sounds. You pretty much have to leave everything about yourself behind. For me, it meant taking a hiatus from my fairly lucrative, rising- star fashion design career and becoming someone who kind of lives on the prairie and sews prairie dresses. You know, those long boho-style ones that were so popular in the seventies? Cottagecore is actually a thing again.

I had to start from nothing all around, but in the past eight months, I’ve reinvented myself, though it came with a price tag. First of all, the acreage just about bankrupted me, but I did buy it in cash. Getting a fake ID isn’t cheap either, even when you know someone who knows someone who knows someone. Even without a mortgage, I have bills to pay, groceries and fabric to buy so I can eat and sew, and the constant upkeep of this place.

By upkeep, I mean I need to keep most of the buildings from falling down around me.

Luckily, the house is mostly cosmetic, but that’s not the case with the barn and shop. If I wanted to save them, something had to be done.

I didn’t have the money to hire anyone, so that something was done by me .

I first heard the term hot bedding when I was driving around in my ancient station wagon, trying to hear the crackly radio above the roaring heater that was spewing out very little warm air while I drove on snow-covered back roads, heading into town to mail out a stack of finished orders. Yes, I’m good. Starting over sucks, but it didn’t take me long to get back into the roll of things. My work speaks for itself, I guess. Plus, granny dresses are hot, so hence the massive order stack I had to get out.

I would have been doing fine if I hadn’t walked into the barn to feed the two stray cats that kind of came with the place and noticed that the walls were…what’s the term? Cantilevering? I’m not sure if that’s right, but one was moving one way in, and the other was moving the other way in, so they were both bowing in the middle in ways they shouldn’t. I took some photos and joined an online forum, where some very nice people informed me that I was hooped—and hooped hard—unless I acted fast. Meaning I needed to pour a concrete floor and pin the cement grade beams in place by digging out all around them and making sure they couldn’t move once I straightened them out and realigned the walls with them using all sorts of jacking and blocking methods.

It sounded really scary, but I learned there isn’t anything I can’t do with enough muscle power, enough hours of shoveling, and the knowledge and will to get it done.

The one thing I didn’t have was twenty grand to pour a new floor and make sure the walls stopped moving. Doing it by hand with bags and a mixer wasn’t an option for a pour of that size, so the advice I got was to call a truck in. The pouring would be done by the truck, and the rest would be done by me.

When I realized I’d need a big chunk of money fast, and I needed to also do a hell of a bunch of research, I turned to the internet. The only thing I was willing to sell was my feet, but it didn’t work out. Everyone talks about making bank off their toes, but I got a whole lot of zero tractions from the websites I tried.

And then.

Inspiration.

Hot bedding.

It’s not a very big thing here in the US, but I think it’s why I’m able to make so much money so fast. There’s a fledgling website that is gaining traction, so I signed up.

I couldn’t believe rich men were willing to travel out here, into the middle of bum farge nowhere North Dakota, just to share the other half of my queen-sized bed for the night. Regular hot bedding is supposed to be where people rent out half of their bed or their whole bed for a night, and they take a shift sleeping in it with a stranger. No one shares the bed at the same time. But maybe I was desperate, or maybe I was just willing to go the extra mile. I wanted something that would set me apart.

Of course, I have some rules.

There’s no crossing the imaginary halfway line. Cameras are installed in the corners of my room for everyone’s safety and protection, and a contract is negotiated and signed before said visitor arrives. I have a fake age within five years listed on my profile—older, not younger—and my one stipulation is that anyone coming has to be over the age of sixty. I also don’t have a profile picture. Just a very honest physical description. It took me a while to get going, but then my clients were nice enough to rate me, and a few stars meant more regular work.

Though, I shouldn’t call it work. Jesus.

Long story short, I’m still saving up. I have the walls and grade beams pinned in place with a heck of a lot of wood supports and blocking. I have everything dug out, I have the holes drilled in all the cement, which I had to rent a crazy huge hammer and concrete drill bits to do, and I have most of the rebar in place. That all cost a hand and a foot because the dang barn is two thousand square feet, but my biggest expense is going to be the cement itself. I can’t mix up that much concrete, so I’m going to have to pay trucks to come and workers to do it because I’d mess it up and by working alone, there’s no way I could keep up before it set. If I’m spending all the money, I want it to look decent when I’m done. I want the barn to be saved, not me screwing it up at the last minute and finding out that I did something wrong and it’s entirely unfixable and all of it was just for nothing.

Anyway. I’m currently six thousand eight hundred and seventy-six dollars short of my main goal.

I’m exceptionally dedicated to getting this done so I can stop renting out the other half of my bed to strangers while I sleep on the other side because it’s weird, and if anyone found out I was doing it, it would be even weirder. But …I have standards.

And the one I don’t ever waver on, like EVER, is the over-sixty clause.

Which brings me to right now. The good old present and my present state of confusion and distress. Because I’m standing here at the front door, utterly dumbfounded.

This guy isn’t over sixty. I’d bet my left butt cheek that he’s not over freaking fourty-something.

I’d guess he’s a traveling salesman or someone peddling some kind of information, except for the fact that I’m almost impossible to find if you don’t know where to look or have the directions on how to get here, which makes it pretty inconvenient for most people. The shiny new rental that is so far above standard domestic sedan in the driveway, the expensive cologne wafting off this guy, and the five thousand dollar designer suit tell me this is indeed a client.

“What the hell?” I pull back and crouch down into ass-kicking mode. I’m perfectly capable of defending myself out here. That wasn’t always the case, but since having to leave my old life behind and reinvent myself, I’ve been taking online self-defense classes. Yes, they work, and yes, I am a badass bitch. “You’re not over sixty, you toad. You better get back in your car and leave. I’m warning you. Don’t make me get my pet crawfish out. You’ll get a double ass kicking then.”

One brow goes up. He stares at me, looking like the devil and god of death. He’s exceptionally unmoved and unafraid, even by the threats of the crawfish. He’s so super freaking hot in that black on black on black against frosty blue eyes, black hair, sharp features, and a really tall, muscular body.

This guy might not be over sixty, but he’s a different number entirely. As in, he’s a ten.

He’s clean and polished, but there’s also something extremely terrifying about him. Something…off.

Whatever it is, it appeals to me in all the wrong ways.

Don’t lecture me about my past, throwing all sorts of red flags about guys that are off. My ex happened to have zero red flags and was totally normal. Until he wasn’t. He wasn’t big, mean, or scary-looking. He wasn’t the least bit frosty. He was warm and personal, and even my family liked him. He duped us all. With him, what you saw wasn’t what you got.

There’s something about this stranger that says I’m going to get exactly what I see.

That said, criminals are apparently my thing in a subliminal, unconscious sort of way. I hope this guy made his money in legit, safe, non-environmentally-and-other-people-harming ways.

Still, I get alarm bells.

I also get va-jay-jay bells.

No. Those are not a thing. My lady bits can’t buzz loud enough or wild enough to make actual noise. I think.

The not-over-sixty hottie sticks out one meaty paw. “Beau Taves.” It kind of sounds like Bow Toes, and I do my best not to choke on a sudden burst of laughter. Is he for real, or are we both using fake names? “My code word is crawfish, so I must be at the right place.”

“No. There’s been a mistake.” I give him my best feral expression. It probably looks like I’m grinning a welcome at him. At five-foot-four and barely a hundred pounds, all blonde and freckled and wearing one of my prairie dresses, I’m about as intimidating as a hangnail.

He looks confused as he pulls out his phone. He does a scrolling thing with the screen—he must have a really good phone plan because there isn’t much reception out here unless you’re on the Wi-Fi, and I have to have a satellite dish up on the roof to give me that much.

He flashes the app, which shows the contract he’s already filled out ahead of time, at me. There, clearly, is a message from me giving him the date and time to arrive and directions out to the acreage. He raises a brow and stays dreadfully silent. He’s one of those, I realize. One of those too tall, too dark, too handsome, too quiet all the time, unnerving types. He does all of that on purpose. I mean…most of it. I suppose he can’t help how he looks.

Never mind, he’s rich. Of course he can help it.

That suit, which fits his tall, tall, exceptionally tall frame like a freaking glove, helps a lot. I recognize the designer. I thought the price tag was five grand, but it is probably closer to eight grand. It’s best to stand here and pretend I don’t know anything about clothes. I’m just a country bumpkin renting out half of her bed for a single night to pay the bills. It’s just little old me here, poor and dressed in rags, and he’s the dark prince charming with all the money, coming to save me.

Fuck. That.

But guys get off on it, and those guys are my clients, so…

I can pretend.

I’m great at pretending.

Except right now.

Right now, my face is red hot, and when I blush, I look more like a sunburned tomato left out in the boiling sun a few too many hours in addition to being scorched on a super hot North Dakota summer day.

“N—no.” Shit. I hate when I stammer. I do not stammer. There’s something about this guy and the way he just stands there looking all amused and not one bit confused, flustered, or off-guard now that has me tongue-tied. Also, does he have to be so disastrously good-looking? “There’s been a mistake. You’re not over sixty. I exclusively only allow men over sixty to do this.”

At least he frowns now as he scrolls back a few pages and brings up his profile. He taps the screen and groans .

That groan sounds like it comes from the toes and travels all the way up the six-foot-three or so frame. It rattles out and scrapes out. It’s fully formed and is deliciously and devastatingly sexy. I’ve never heard a more pleasing sound in my life.

Ugh, biology and hormones sometimes disgust me. I blame them entirely for this reaction I’m having right now, though reaction is a light word. The inside of my body feels like a chemistry lab about to explode violently .

“I messed up when I made my profile. Instead of saying thirty-six, it reversed the numbers and said sixty-three.”

Thirty-six. Thirty freaking six. There’s no way this guy is thirty-six.

Then again, there is a certain…ruggedness to his face and a few extra lines around the eyes that only give character. Maybe it’s the darkness in his eyes that say he’s seen some life, and in that life, he’s seen some shit. Do I want him to have seen shit? Ugh. I have a thing for villains, in theory. In real life, they’re not much fun. Then again, my ex was just a straight-up criminal and an asshole piece of fuckery. It doesn’t make him a villain. Villains are so much more than people who do bad things. It’s how they do them. And it’s what they feel on the inside.

I have a problem. I admit it.

I don’t like real-life danger, but I like the idea of it. I don’t think golden-haired, do-gooder men are hot. I’m sorry, but the Prince Charming and white horse fantasy isn’t for me. I guess I shouldn’t use the term villains. That’s bad. I should say anti-heroes. Anti-heroes imply you don’t like straight-up darkness in the bedroom, but you’re certainly not a vanilla girl. It implies that you see the world in more ways than black and white.

“ It reversed the numbers, or you reversed the numbers?” I’m giving this guy zero slack. Also? Hot as he is, he’s not stepping foot in this house, and he’s certainly not hot bedding in my bed.

He shrugs. “I must have done it.”

“On purpose,” I say, crossing my arms.

“Not on purpose. The site has no age restriction. I didn’t realize you did. Your profile popped up. There was nothing about being over sixty.”

“That’s because I have it set so that if you’re not over sixty, you can’t even see my profile. I won’t be visible. Christ. You cheated the system,” I groan.

“I’m sorry that I’m not a geezer yet. If that’s your kink—”

“This isn’t about kink!” I snap.

“No?” He loses all traces of mirth. “Rich guys paying wild amounts of money to sleep in a bed next to a beautiful woman, smell her sheets, enter her most intimate zone, and see her at her most vulnerable…that’s not a kink?”

“Whatever. I know if they wanted something else, they could afford it, and they would get it. Maybe it’s more about companionship for a lot of people. Not kink. Are you lonely?”

“Undoubtedly, that’s why I’m here. I realized my life is sad and unfulfilling.” He sounds about as sad and unfulfilled as a room full of toddlers at a birthday party filled with balloons, toys, and a giant freshly baked birthday cake. “All my money has left a vapid void inside me.” Is this mockery? Why can’t I tell? “When you have this much money, no one is real. I want a night of something real. It’s not about sex. It’s about connection. I could buy it in other ways, but I don’t want someone to pretend. I don’t want to buy love, and I don’t want to buy someone’s body. That is definitely not my thing. I want to buy time. So since I’m here…” He reaches into his suit for a pen. “I’m prepared to renegotiate the contract with you. I’ll give you ten times your normal rate.”

Holy. Shit.

Holy shit to all of that, especially the last bit. That sounded very real.

Also, no deal. This guy wants this far too much. I’m highly suspicious of the suspicious, and he’s all SUS.

Frowning, I say, “I think you’d better find someone else to take you up on the offer.”

“But I want you,” he replies.

Jesus. A normal person would see this stubborn insistence and the way his eyes suddenly zero in and focus way too hard on me as frightening. A normal woman would reach for the pepper spray, back away slowly, and give it to him good before slamming the door in his face and calling the cops.

Then again, a normal woman wouldn’t be in hiding, fixing up her crumbling acreage by renting out her bed to complete strangers and basically just asking to be murdered in her sleep, cameras, contracts, and safety vetting notwithstanding.

His laser focus should scare me, but it doesn’t. Instead, it makes me hot. And, if I’m honest, it makes me wet too.

There’s a reason I did the over-sixty thing.

I don’t find older men attractive. This isn’t about attraction to start, but I did think it was best to avoid temptation at all costs. And this man? He’s basically temptation incarnate. All the parts that are not right about me scream at me to accept his offer. To lay there all night, awake and listening to him breathe. To feel the weight and heat of his body beside me and all his lethal power restrained and doing nothing. If I’m at my most vulnerable, as he said, then he would be too, and there’s a part of me that wants to see this strong, huge, rich, and mind-numbingly handsome man in that position—stripped down even with clothes on.

This is a platonic agreement, and it’s strictly non-sexual.

However, my hormones haven’t gotten the memo.

Clearly.

Because this guy is fully clothed, and I think he might be an asshole, if that smirk on his hot ass lips is anything to go by, and I’m just about having a spontaneous orgasm from a few words and his general smoldering existence.

Okay, also? I haven’t bothered giving myself a single orgasm in over a year, and it seems I’ve been remiss. Withholding orgasms can apparently do strange things to the mind.

I should force this guy to be on his way. He’s not good. Not good at all.

But then…what if he complains? What if he gets me blocked or banned from the site? What if he leaves a bad review out of spite, and I get zero other clients after this? On the flip side of him destroying my life with a single swipe, he’s probably rich enough to make all my problems go away and then some. I could fix the shop as well as the barn, put some money into savings, and plan another bugout escape in case I ever need one. Being broke is a really bad way to go on the run.

Not so smart me knows this and opens the door a little wider. It makes that creaky, screechy noise that all old wood screen doors in all old wood farmhouses make. “In that case, good sir, please come in. We’ll renegotiate the contract over tea and muffins. You’ll pay through the teeth, and I’ll put the money to good use, I promise.”

His grin doesn’t look entirely human, but in the next instant, the raw animal in it is gone, and he’s all million—or maybe billion—dollar charm. “Do you really have a pet crawfish?”

“That’s for you to find out.” Which he will. Right away. Because Pinchy McPinchy Claws’ tank is in the kitchen.

He doesn’t step in yet. He stays perfectly poised, perfectly huge, perfectly beautiful, and perfectly deadly right outside. “That’s for me to find out when?”

“When we’re on a first-name basis.”

One brow lifts just a hair as though I’ve surprised him. He shakes his head as if to say, see, I knew there was a reason I liked your profile above all. There’s something about you. You’ve got grit and spunk and all the other old-fashioned, slightly creepy words. Especially spunk. Shudder. That’s such a gross word. It’s like moist multiplied by ten thousand million to the power of just plain wrong.

“Beau Taves. Code word: crawfish.” As I already said is clearly implied in his tone of voice.

“I meant real first name basis, not code name or code word basis.” There’s no way this guy’s real name sounds like Bow Toes.

“That is my real name,” he says.

“You just arrive at someone’s house and give them your real name? Dude. Not cool.”

“Okay, you’re right. That’s not my real name.” I swear his eyes glisten like the night sky with a whole bunch of glittery stars in their depths and still look utterly frosty but beautifully frigid.

Hashtag pathetic over here, I know.

“Don’t give me your real name.”

“I won’t. Even if I just did.” He smirks.

Riddles. Great. Just what my libido doesn’t need, on top of his already over-the-top, in-your-face, blatant-as-all-fuck sexiness.

“Great, Beau who’s not Beau. Code word: crawfish. Come on in. Do you like chai tea?”

“I happen to abhor it,” he replies.

I grin. “Oh, good. That’s all I have. Can I offer you water or milk?”

“I’ll have the tea.”

Shit. A sucker for punishment. I’m so screwed. Good thing this contract involves absolutely none of that. In this life, if I’m one thing, it’s a stickler for not breaking an iron-clad agreement. We haven’t written it yet, but we will, and I’ll make sure that no matter what goes on that paper, I’ll be protected, safe, and okay coming out of it. Beau can leave that way, too. Despite his willingness to drink tea that he hates.

Or maybe because of it.

Any guy who is willing to take one for the team in the name of being a polite guest can’t be so bad, can he?