Page 28 of The CEO and the Mountain Man

Jake, in the meantime, had sidled up next to me like a silent assassin. “You areridiculous.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“Yeah, well. Tell that to your face.”

He’d then acted like he was wiping invisible drool from the corner of my mouth.Bastard.

Focus, Beau.

I’d elbowed Jake and watched as Clark pulled a massive T-shirt over all that perfection. While sad, it’d cleared the fog of lust enough for me to see that the energy between father and son was already so much better than it had been earlier. Actually, it looked like they’d been laughing, and River was twirling his walking stick like a baton. I was relieved to see it.

Returning to the poolside tragedy unfolding before me, I wasn’t so sure of this River and Miguel pairing. I was guessing it’d end in heartbreak, but it wasn’t my job to prevent legal adults—albeit teenagers—from exploring their sexuality.

I just needed to make sure they got back home in one piece. And I should probably warn them that poison ivy getseverywhere.

After lunch and a rousing game of Marco Polo, we piled everyone back onto the bus, and they dropped us off at the main barn before taking off for Fort Collins.

Just as Miguel, River, and the twins were gathering their things, Clark walked out of the barn with his painting in hand,the ratty T-shirt from this morning hanging over the crook of his elbow.

Fucking hell, even hiskneeswere sexy. The light dusting of hair on his thighs was…

“Dad? Did youjustfinish your painting?” River asked, interrupting my thoughts.

Clark seemed a little caught out. “Not all of us are award-winning artists, son. It took me a while. Also, I let it dry while I rode Betty.”

“You rode Betty without me?” I asked, unreasonably jealous.

Clark turned to me, hand going to his perfect abs. “Your horse guy, Jake, said it was okay.”

“Well, as long as Jake was okay with it,” I said, plucking his painting from his hands.

Clark seemed to wanna grab it back from me, but I held it over his head, playing keep away. Spending the day with teenagers had done wonders for my maturity.

Still holding it above my head, I flipped it so I could see the painting.

It was an improvement on yesterday’s blob horse, but now—even though Clark’s color theory was a little rough, and the eyes weren’t quite even—it was good enough that I recognized the scene from the other day. River, cheek to cheek with Betty, a small smile on his face.

A painting of the photograph I’d texted to him.

“Clark, this is actually pretty good,” I said, finally bringing it down and handing it back to him. He took it from me with a huff, his cheeks adorably red.

He said to River, “I know it’s super bad, but?—”

Clark stopped speaking mid-sentence, as though someone had flipped a switch.

I turned to see what had interrupted his speech.

River had taken the painting from his father and was staring at it. Tears streamed down his face, down his neck, past the hickeys, into the collar of his T-shirt. His eyes were rimmed red, his face contorted in pain.

He leaned into the walking stick he’d been playing with all day long.

I gestured to Miguel and the twins. “Hey, can y’all give us a moment?”

Concerned for their new friend, Connor and Cynthia murmured their agreement, quietly making their way to the path that led to their cabin, while Miguel headed into the barn after a worried glance at River. I checked around, grateful that not many people were milling about. I directed us to the relative privacy of the side of the barn, where we could stand in the shade.

“I’m sorry,” River choked out, dashing at his tears. “I don’t know what’s happening.”

“I didn’t realize the painting was that bad,” Clark said, going for the joke.