Chapter 13 Julia

Istart by dicing an onion. Cut down the middle, remove the top, peel the skin, lay flat on the cut side, slice sideways, slice top to bottom, then chop—all done the way Gordon Ramsay showed me when he came to my father's home and cooked dinner for him when I was thirteen. Next, I do a celery stalk. Carrots.

Chop. Chop. Chop.

I concentrate on my cuts until I realize Gus is watching me from the other side of the island. He's seated on a stool, holding an old fashioned glass containing two fingers of something amber. His expression is cripplingly handsome and annoying all at once.

"What do you want, August?"

"I can stare at whatever I damn well please in my own home." His response rolls off the tongue with ease, like he was waiting for me to ask.

I snicker. "Why don't you stare at this recipe and help me, if you insist on being here."

I slide my phone across the island. He glances at the recipe and then back at the cutting board. "Beef bourguignon?"

"Do you like it?"

He shakes his head before he rises and comes around the island to stand next to me. "I've never had it. I'm not big into…cuisine."

My brow arches and I slow my cuts when I look at him. "So, what do you eat?"

"Basics. Pasta. Sandwiches."

"Meat and potatoes?"

"Didn't grow up a billionaire," he murmurs, trailing off at the end like he regrets sharing a morsel of intimacy with me.

"Hm." I slam the flat side of the knife against a clove of garlic. "So, how did you grow up?"

He takes the garlic off the cutting board and peels the skin for me without looking at me. His jaw flexes, squaring hard as he clenches his teeth.

"Well, I love beef bourguignon," I comment to break the silence. "It's the only dish my mother ever made when we were growing up. Chefs cooked for us three-hundred and sixty-four days a year, but she always did a beef bourguignon the week before Christmas."

"Does she still?"

I shake my head. "My parents divorced when I was thirteen." I crush another clove of garlic. "Mom bought herself a palace of a revenge house in Paris with dad's money. She used to spend the holidays there, but she was diagnosed with cancer right after I graduated from Yale. After that, she wanted us to spend the holidays together. Easier to do that in Boston than in Paris."

"Is she still…" Gus trails off.

"Mom? Cancer-free." I push the rest of the unpeeled garlic cloves towards him. "Still likes her quiet Boston Christmases though."

Gus takes a slow drink before he says, "My grandmother had cancer too. Breast cancer."

"I'm sorry. Is she…" I trail off the same way he did.

When he doesn't respond, I clear my throat and point to the oven. "Can you take out the center rack, please? Thanks."

We cook for the next three hours. Once the beef is in the oven and the rich scent is starting to waft through the cabin, Gus leaves to set the table and pick out a bottle of wine for us.

When the beef is ready, I heave the Dutch oven and shuffle carefully into the dining room, where I'm surprised to find a fully set table: red placemats, gold chargers, and red cloth napkins at two seats, with white taper candles flickering between. It's so…Christmassy.

Gus watches me examine the tablescape he arranged. There are a million snide things I could say, but I hold back. The moment isn't appropriate for snideness, but I can't seem to muster a compliment either. I put the food in the middle of the table, family style—even though we're anything but family.

Salad, beef bourguignon, plus a glass of wine for each of us.

Once I've served him a portion, Gus stares at his plate before looking up at me. "This is certainly edible," he comments.

"Cheers, asshole," I reply, raising my glass of wine.

We clink and drink, both of us unsure what to say. It's a rare moment of peace. A stalemate, I guess—all brought on by a beef bourguignon.

As he eats, Gus groans softly. It's nearly inaudible, but I can hear it over the sounds of his record player in the next room.

"Suck it up and tell me you like it, August," I prod triumphantly. "There's nobody here. I promise I won't tell a soul that you have pleasant things to say occasionally."

His glare is equal parts annoyance and amusement. "If being a professional rich man's daughter doesn't pan out," he replies, smirking devilishly, "you could have a career in a kitchen."

I refuse to take the bait. "Thank you, August. You're so sweet," I counter before taking a drink of my wine. I breathe out after the sip, exhaling into the silence that follows. When I look out the window, the night surrounds us and snow continues to fall in thick waves. My mind travels to the frigid, unforgiving air I felt this morning, and I'm grateful for the cozy refuge of the cabin.

When I face the table again, I realize Gus has been watching me.

"So, why Montana? I assume most people don't immigrate to London just to come back to Montana, of all places."

"I expatriated."

"Just because we're American doesn't mean we get to use a special word for it."

"Fair enough," he murmurs. "Well, I grew up here."

Several beats of silence pass before I realize he's not going to say anything else.

"Like here?" I press. "In this cabin?"

He shakes his head. "I started building this place four years ago. I come back whenever I can to work on it."

Skeptical, I furrow my brow. "What do you mean you ‘work on it?' Like, you take conference calls from here instead of your office?"

"I build," he clarifies like he's teaching me how to use these words in a sentence.

"You build? Build what?"

"Rooms. Furniture. Whatever I want."

My confusion melts into surprise—and then slowly into disbelief. My hand flattens on the tabletop of its own volition. "Did you make this table?"

He nods. That's it—a nod is his way of telling me he constructed a gorgeous dining table. It's intentionally unfinished: the natural edges of the tree remain along the edges. It's stunning, honestly.

"You know you could buy any table you want," I remind him, but I'm speaking for the sake of speaking. He knows he can buy anything, but we both know there would be no reason for him to pick a different table. The one he built couldn't be more perfect for this dining room.

I drag my finger, tracing the grain. As my hand moves, his eyes track its path with deadly focus, like me caressing his handiwork does something for him.

"Where did you learn to make this?"

"You ask so many questions, Julia," he replies with another sigh.

"Where did you learn to make this?" I repeat.

"Summer camp."

"August," I intone warningly.

He raises his wine glass and drinks deeply, blue eyes on me the entire time. "My grandfather was a carpenter," he finally murmurs.

Somehow, I know this is true—and I know he's reluctant to share more.

"Well, it's impressive," I admit softly, and I don't say anything else. A rare moment of candor just transpired between us; I know better than to take it for granted.

"Thank you." His tone is soft too, close to inaudible.

Clearing my throat, I look away from him and resume my dinner. "Do you have any holiday plans?"

He shakes his head. "There's a company party back in London, but I skipped it this year."

"A company party isn't a holiday plan; it's an obligation. Plans are what you make with your friends or family."

"Yes, thank you for the lesson in semantics, Julia. What are your plans?"

I finish my wine and pour myself another before I say, "My father throws a huge party every year. I go, kiss the ring—the usual. He loves it so I don't mind too much. But actually, I prefer the time we spend with my mother."

"We?"

"My brothers and me. Davis, obviously, and Kieran."

"What do you all do?"

His earnest expression strikes me. It takes me too long to recognize genuine curiosity—that Gus actually wants to know what I do at my mother's house every Christmas.

"Presents. Eggnog. Charlie Brown. Nothing glamorous. After her divorce, my mom became very anti…extravagance. Can you imagine that—experiencing a breakup so horrible that you build a negative association with money because it reminds you of your ex?"

"I believe it. Sometimes a bad breakup can change your whole life."

"Sounds like there's a story there," I remark.

If there is, he's surely not about to tell me. He simply takes a bite of his dinner and chews slowly, drawing out the silence before he says, "So are you close to your mother or your father?"

"Our relationships are different. If I need to get anything done, I go to my father. If I need wisdom or guidance, I go to my mother." I pause to drink before saying, "My mother gave me one great piece of advice early on: Never sleep with a billionaire."

"We would all do well to listen to your mother," he replies, his expression placid and amused. "So, that covers your parents. What about your brothers? What's the deal with them?"

"Nothing. They're great."

"Do you get along?"

I shrug. "Most of the time. They both like me much more than they like each other, but they're getting along right now, which is odd for those two. You know how that goes."

He shakes his head. "Only child."

"Oh," I murmur. "I'm sure that made for an interesting childhood."

Gus blinks rapidly before he shakes his head once more, looking like a man who is snapping out of a stupor. God forbid we talk about anything real. He glances at his empty plate. "Thanks for dinner. I'll clean up."

"You don't have to do that."

"If you haven't noticed, it's unlikely the housekeeper will make it out here. Not to mention, the magic candlesticks and dishes have been slacking lately."

Jackass.

Annoyed, I pick up my own plates and follow him to the kitchen. When he tries to take them from me, I brush past him to get to the sink. I can sense him standing behind me, watching me rinse my dishes. I'm waiting for a sarcastic comment—some dig about him being surprised I know how to load a dishwasher.

It doesn't come. His warm body moves closer to me instead. His hands appear in my periphery at first until they rest on the countertop on either side of the sink, caging me.

He smells so unfairly delicious.

"Why did you run, Julia?" he murmurs.

His breath tickles my ear, prompting a low shiver through my center. Body heat radiates against the back of my sweater and we're suddenly so, so close to each other.

"You said you wanted me again," he continues, his voice low and rumbly. "And then you ran."

"Because you were done with me," I remind him, hating the memory—the humiliation. "You got what you wanted and immediately told Davis."

When he doesn't respond, I shut off the faucet and pause, waiting cautiously for his next move.

"Fuck," he grits softly, drawing out the word. His chin grazes my shoulder, moving gently like a caress. "We got our wires crossed, Ridgeway."

"How so?" The question comes out acidic, accusatory.

"I texted your brother so I could fuck you without the deal lingering over our heads, not to collect my payment."

I freeze at first. The explanation is too simple to be a lie. "You wanted to fuck me again. No deal, just me," I clarify—and hold my breath, waiting for a response.

"Just you," he murmurs, tickling the shell of my ear. His body presses against mine again, much stronger than a graze this time.

Relief strikes me and the residual embarrassment fades—and then annoyance mounts when I realize we could have avoided the day's animosity if I hadn't fallen asleep. He wasn't throwing me out; he wanted me as much as I wanted him.

Shit.

"Suck it up and tell me you want me, Julia," he urges, confidence and derision rich in his tone. His hand shifts on the counter, thumb brushing against the pinky on my left hand. The gesture is so slight, and yet indescribably sexy. Anything more deliberate wouldn't have the same tension behind it.

"Why would I do a thing like that?" I reply, my voice soft.

"Because you do," he replies knowingly, and another brush of his body sends soft waves of anticipation through me. "You want me. I can see it when you look at me. You can't resist undressing me with your eyes every time I enter a room. You've got it bad. So say it, Julia. Tell me you want me."

"And if I do," I begin slowly, turning my head so I can see him over my shoulder, "what happens?"

His expression slides into pure seduction and his gaze drops to my mouth. He wets his lower lip with his tongue. "Anything you want," he offers. "Anything."

Anything.

"So if I ask you to tie me up and pour wine over my naked body before you fuck me senseless…that's what I'll get?" I jab, speaking sardonically so he can't mistake my comment as serious.

"Anything. And I'm a man who can quite literally give you anything. Haven't you realized that yet?"

Want rushes through me, no matter how cocky and arrogant his words are. I swallow hard, scrambling to recall if a man has ever had this effect on me before. He's overwhelming and exciting all at once, but all those sensations pale in comparison to the power of my disorientation. For once, I have no clue how to handle a man—and it terrifies me.

"All you have to do," he continues, "is ask."

He's toying with me. I know it—and I don't hate it.

Sure enough, when I turn around he's watching me with amusement and hunger in his limitless blue eyes. His gaze traces my face, dips down to my body, and returns to meet my eyes once more. I take in the look of focus he wears—the look I've seen on magazine covers and articles about this illustrious and mysterious business titan. He's so indescribably striking. Confident. Powerful. All I want is to fuck his striking, confident, powerful brains out.

He wants it too—and we could have a lot of fun if we're both game.

"In that case, I'm going to bed," I assert.

We both know I'm lying.

Half an hour later, I'm in bed stark naked and glaring at the wooden beams that run across the ceiling. Frustrated, I shift and the flannel sheets brush over my nipples. I'm tingling. Anticipation courses through me, making every sensation more pronounced.

Where. The. Fuck. Is. He.

Sighing heavily, I grab my phone from the nightstand and open my texts with Gus. Nothing.

Should I text him? Absolutely not. The last thing I need is written evidence of me crawling out of my skin while waiting for Gus Winter to come upstairs and take me.

I drop my phone face down on the nightstand and let out another exhale. The man must be a specter because I haven't even heard him moving around the cabin.

Suddenly, mortification passes through me. Did he go to sleep? Did he seriously get into bed and go to sleep when there's a hot, horny woman on the other side of the wall?

Did I completely misread all his cues?

I fling the sheets off and scoot out of bed. As quietly as I can, I tiptoe across the room and press my ear against our shared wall, straining to pick up sounds coming from his bedroom. There's nothing but the buzz of the lightbulb in the sconce by my head. Not a footstep or a snore or even a deep breath.

Reality strikes me—I'm completely naked, eavesdropping through walls, frustrated because a man who made me fly to Montana isn't beating down the door to get to me. Humblingdoesn't even cover it. With a deep inhale, like I can swallow my dignity in the air,I straighten my spine and push away from the wall.

I return to the bedroom area of the guest suite and crouch on the floor to dig through my suitcase. Tucked away in the bottom, in a discrete black satin pouch, is the answer to all my problems: battery powered, pink, silicone, and incapable of speech—my motherfucking vibrator.

Over the years, I've picked up some indispensable travel hacks. Global Entry, sleep masks, melatonin, ginger tea—I know all the tricks. My most groundbreaking discovery: Always travel with a sex toy.

Vacationing in another country in the winter when the clubs are closed? Break out the vibrator.

Stuck in Greece during the off season while horny and desperate, and thinking about hooking up with a skeevy shipping heir who will probably film you and show his friends? No, girl—use the vibrator.

And now: trapped in a cabin in a blizzard with an arrogant billionaire who literally haggled for your pussy instead of going through the trouble of, you know, winning you over, and then you made the grave mistake of inviting him to play more dumb games instead of just asking him to screw your brains out, and now your stupid pride is still keeping you from asking him to rearrange your organs? Vibrator.

The answer is always, always vibrator.

Triumphant, I practically flit back to the bed, dig into the kinkiest vault in my orgasm archive, and turn on the toy. The hum of the vibration fills the room. As usual, I lower the head to rest against the spot right above my clit. At once, relief spreads through me.

Normally, I would draw this out, but tonight my limbs are tight with tension. Luckily, the friction melts the tension away, casting a soft wave of pleasure over me. I replay the time I had sex with an Italian race car driver in a hammock in Sardinia—a time when I came so hard my voice was hoarse the next day. I mean, yes, perhaps my voice was hoarse because I had been partying nonstop for four straight days…but the guy had been pretty and at least had the decency to take off his watch while we were in the act.

Two minutes in, I'm trying to recall the way he licked a straight line from my collarbone to my bellybutton, but frustration creeps over me. This isn't working.

Annoyed, I increase the setting on the vibrator. The toy is loud now—obnoxiously loud—to the point where it's distracting. But even with the turbo settings on full blast, I still can't get there.

It's the race car driver's fault. He was too damn selfish—and not even a particularly good driver.

Vibrator off.

I grip the sheets in exasperation. Undeterred, I try to recall the best hookup I've had in recent times, but nothing sticks. My memories are a blur of boring rich guys who I've never spoken to again—who now follow me on social media and occasionally slide into my direct messages because I didn't bother to give them my number.

I blink and the low light of my room comes back into view. I'm about to resort to porn on my phone when my eyes lock on the nightstand next to the bed. It's identical to the one in Gus's bedroom and I wonder if he made it himself. I wonder if he went out and picked out the wood. Cut it. Sanded it. Screwed it all together or whatever the hell you do when you build a nightstand.

Then I wonder if he varnished it himself and carefully slid the little drawer in front into place. And when he did, I wonder if he knew he would one day store the panties he ripped off of my body in that drawer.

My heart skips when the memory of last night comes flooding back.

My pulse pounding. Gus chasing me.

His big hands yanking me away from the door.

His hand on my throat.

My bound wrists.

His lips on my ass.

His cum in my mouth.

My stomach leaps with an echo of excitement and suddenly we're back in business. I place the vibrator onto my clit and oh yes this is exactly what I needed.

The pleasure builds, taking me to the place of total abandon where I lose my mind every time I climax. It's so, so good—

My eyes blink open at the sound of vibrations—and not the ones beneath my sheets. New ones. On the nightstand, my phone is glowing with text notifications.

New message from Gus Winter

I'll never, ever admit that my stomach flips with excitement when I see his name. In fact, I've never unlocked my phone faster in my life. There are three messages from Gus:

Gus: Julia.

Gus: Are you touching yourself?

Gus: In my bed?

Like a sixth sense for pleasure, the man knows I'm getting myself off in his home—without him.

Me: Can't text now. Hands busy.

After I send the message, I crank up the vibration again—and I let out a moan for good measure.

Suddenly, I cry out with surprise when the door to my bedroom swings open. Gus bursts into the room, fury coating every inch of his face. We make eye contact across the room, and he bounds towards me.

"What the fuck is that?" he questions stonily, gesturing over me.

A lot of people would cower when confronted with a man like Gus and the ferocity on his face. I, on the other hand, don't miss a beat. I continue to run the toy over my clit, groaning softly and staring at him.

"You brought a vibrator to my house?" he presses, gripping the end of the bed frame. "As if you'd need to turn anywhere else but to me for pleasure?"

The indignation riles me in indescribable ways. Smugly, I pull the toy away from my clit and—still vibrating—place it between my lips. When I suck on the silicone tip, I can taste myself. With a flourish, I stick out my tongue and lick it like a lollipop—eyes never leaving Gus's face.

His mood shifts immediately. His grip on the bed frame remains tense, but his anger is quickly melting into desire. "Answer my fucking question, Julia."

"Yes, August," I coo—milking this shit. I return the toy to its spot under the sheets. "I did bring a vibrator to your house."

His eyes narrow. "What for?"

"Figured you'd either disappoint me or leave me high and dry. Looks like I was right. Mm…" I groan and tilt my hips upwards, pressing myself hard against the toy.

"Off," he orders.

"No."

"Off."

"No."

"Turn it off."

"Fuck no," I snap before I tug down the sheet so he can see my bare breasts.

His nostrils flare, and I'm not sure if his reaction is from desire or frustration that someone—for once—refuses to listen to him.

Then he takes a fistful of sheets and suddenly yanks it down, exposing my naked body in its entirety.

I don't try to cover myself. I luxuriate instead, raising my free arm above my head to show off for him. His blue eyes lock on the long line of my body, following it from my face all the way to my feet.

Behind his fake-angry glare, he looks so fucking pleased.

"Fine then," he grits before he takes a seat at the end of the bed. "You can do whatever you want."

"That's my MO," I remind him. I cup my breast, massaging it lightly. "You sure you don't mind? You know, if you really don't like me masturbating, you could always join me."

He grunts. That does it.

Gus is about to stand and pounce on me when I taunt, "All you have to do is ask."

He snickers. "I'd rather die."

"Then drop dead, old man, because you're not laying a hand on me unless you ask."

"Fine. You think I don't like to watch? I know this might come as a shock to you, but men don't mind watching a beautiful woman working a pretty little pussy."

Smug, he settles back into his spot at the end of the bed and begins rubbing the heel of his palm against his hardness.

"You really do have such a pretty pussy," he continues, transfixed on my motions. "And fuck you're wet. Who knew something so tiny could get so damn wet."

His words shake me to my very core, tempting out an orgasm that I don't want to emerge. No matter how good this feels, I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of witnessing it—not when he played games with me all night, not when he left me here needy and alone.

"I loathe you," I manage to say.

"I bet if we asked your cunt, she'd disagree with you wholeheartedly." He grins. "Go on. Tell me how much I make your cunt ache,"

"I hate you," I spit back without conviction. My spine arches involuntarily. I should slow down. I have to slow down if I want to keep my climax at bay. But he's so good looking, and as he sits there, fully clothed while I'm spread out naked in front of him, the entire room feels hotter somehow.

He stands and paces towards me, eyes drifting to my naked body and back to my face. "Fine," he grits. "Hate me. Doesn't mean you can't come for me."

His words tickle my twisted side—the one that can't resist making people squirm. We're kindred spirits, I suppose, in that twisted way. And to my chagrin—to my very dismay—my body turns on me.

I come for Gus Winter.