Page 1 of Sinful Sharing

1

Taylor

I think someone’s trying to play a cruel joke on me.

Either that, or my driver took a wrong turn at some point. I peer through the windshield as the SUV cruises up a long, snow-packed driveway. This can’t be it.

On the flight here, I’d imagined a sprawling timber lodge with a valet waiting beneath a heated porch and a lobby dripping with enough luxury to make me not miss San Francisco. Instead, I’m approaching the front of a weathered, split-level ranch house, its silver-brown siding worn down by years of unforgiving winters. Wide porches wrap around both levels, but they feel more desolate than inviting. No valet is waiting to collect my luggage. In fact, there’s no one here at all.

Definitely not a luxury resort. It looks more like a stripped-back, budget getaway.

I don’t do budget getaways.

The airport shuttle driver, Raymond, slows down in front of the largest building. “You’ve arrived at your destination, Mr. Van Houten,” he announces.

“Your GPS must’ve gotten the addresses mixed up,” I reply. “This is not the Silver Sage Retreat.”

“Well, considering I’ve been shuttling guests for years, sir, I don’t need GPS. Besides,” he points through the windshield. I follow his finger. A battered wooden sign leans sideways beside the driveway. Half the paint is peeling away.

Silver Sage Retreat.

Oh... screw my fricking life.

Huffing, I reach for my phone, realizing now that Mom looked right into my eyes and lied to me. She told me I’d be staying at my step-uncle’s mountain resort. This looks like somewhere old people go to die.

Mom doesn’t pick up. No surprises there. I can count how many times she has picked up since she decided to run for Congress. Unbuckling my seatbelt, I step into the freezing Montana air, getting blasted with an instant regret. San Francisco winters are civilized. This feels like nature personally hates me. The wind cuts through my designer coat, chilling my bones. How the hell am I going to survive three months of this?

Shoving my hands into my pockets, I scan the property. It’s aggressively rustic, with sheds and barns and about twenty log cabins that look more like oversized hunting shacks than premium guest accommodations. Raymond rests my luggage near the foot of the front steps, and I hand him a generous tip. He smiles graciously, and I swear he mutters ‘good luck’ under his breath before sliding into the driver’s seat.

As he starts the engine, the front door opens. A giant lopes down the steps. Well, a giant by my standards, anyway. I’m five-seven. He’s at least six-four. Dark-haired, with a thick beard streaked with shades of gray. His muscular torso fills out a charcoal sweater, and a pair of faded jeans covers long legs and sturdy thighs. Every lingering doubt about this place disappears as he stops in front of me.

Because this is Roman.

My step-uncle.

But the photo Mom showed me was of a man who looked rugged but approachable. The one standing before me carries a heavy air of danger. Reflexively, I glance over my shoulder at the SUV cruising toward the gates.

“You’re late.”

No ‘good afternoon’ or ‘nice to finally meet you’. Nothing. He eyes my bags as if they offend him. And now I’m offended. I’m not a master at reading people, but it seems as if he doesn’t want me here. But I must be wrong. He willingly agreed to take me in, so he’s probably having a bad day.

That makes two of us. I’m not seeing a tray of mimosas or a warm towel anywhere.

“Good afternoon to you, too,” I reply. “And I can afford to be late, seeing as I’m on vacation.” I slide a strap of my designer backpack over my shoulder, turning toward the cabins. “Which one is mine?”

Roman snorts. His gaze sweeps over me with mild amusement. “None. You’ll be staying at the main house with us.”

I don’t get to ask who ‘us’ is. He spins on his heels, marching up the steps. “Come on, I don’t have all day.” Such a glowing ray of sunshine. Rolling my eyes, I follow him.

“Uh-uh, pretty boy. This is not the Ritz. Around here, you carry your own stuff.”

I turn toward the deep, lazy voice coming from my right. He’s younger than Roman. Mid-thirties, maybe, with short brown hair, a clean-shaven face, and sharp, golden-brown eyes. A tad shorter than my step-uncle, but they have the same body type. Like Roman, he’s wearing a sweater and jeans that hug his muscular body. A teasing smile dances on his lips as he stops in front of me.

“Name’s Jude,” he says. “Roman’s second-in-command.”

I glance down at the hand he offers me. He snickers when I leave him hanging. “I promise I won’t bite.”

“Yeah, I’d rather not take my chances.” Especially when he does look like he bites. Something fierce and edgy sparkles in those eyes that look me over with a scrutinizing stare. A warm, familiar sensation awakens in my stomach. I take a step back. “What do you mean that I carry my stuff?”