He waves me over and then says goodbye to whoever it was on the other end of the line. “Hungry?” he asks, flipping pancakes on a griddle.

I walk over to the kitchen and take in the place now that I can see it all properly. A huge, huge cabin. I know what these things cost, and I know the value of the land he’s got here, since it backs up against what I think is the Yellowstone River. Millions of dollars.

But his style is not pretentious. It’s not that fake log-cabiny feel that you see rich city people decorate in. People who aren’t really a part of this world, but want to feel like they are when they vacation in their million-dollar homes with their bazillion-dollar views.

It’s country-ish. Homey. The couches aren’t even leather, like you might expect from a man. My fingertips drag along the back of one as I step closer to the kitchen. Cotton. Soft. With throw pillows that look like he uses them to sleep, because they are all crumpled.

“Sydney?” he says, his tone a little more commanding. “Are you hungry?”

I look up at him as I make my way past the furniture. He has a nice dining table too. Rustic, but looking like it was made by hand by someone very skilled. I drag my fingertips over that as I walk as well. Polished and smooth. “Yeah,” I answer, taking a seat at the quartz-topped bar that also serves as a counter. He’s got butter and syrup out and there are two place settings with silverware.

He fills a plate with pancakes and slides it down the stone. It comes to a rest directly in front of me. “You’d make a great bartender with that slide,” I say with a smile.

“I’ve seen your slide, Syd. It’s dead on. Like getting that mug directly in front of a customer is winning a gold medal for you.” And then he turns to let me think about that.

He’s been watching me for years. So how much does he really know?

He slides a glass of orange juice next and I catch it in my hand when he overshoots. I get a shrug out of him for that.

I study his back as he flips some more pancakes. He’s hot. I didn’t want to tell him that the last time I thought about it. But there’s no denying. Merric Case gets what he wants because a) he doesn’t take no for an answer, b) he’s got the skills to back up his ‘requests,’ and c) he’s handsome.

He fills his plate, walks around the counter, and takes the barstool next to me. “Eat,” he says, pointing to my plate with a fork. A second later he’s stuffing his face.

I take a bite, then a few more before gulping some juice and coming up for air. “Mmmm. It’s good.”

“I know,” he says smugly. “I have two real talents, Sydney Channing. Killing and cooking.”

I nod and stare at my food. Right.

“So do you want me to take you to the truck?”

I take a bite of pancakes to think about this.

“Or do you want to hang out?”

“Pfft.” I look up with a laugh. “You kidnapped me.”

He shakes his head. “You came to me. I just kept you longer than you expected.”

“You drugged me. Hit me. Fucked me.”

He shrugs. “I did.”

“So now you want me to believe you want to hang out with me?”

He stabs at his breakfast. “You can if you want, that’s all I’m saying.”

“So now I get to do what I want?”

He shrugs again, but doesn’t look at me. Just chews and stares out the window at his bazillion-dollar view. “I guess I’ll take you back, then.”

“Back where? Where do I go from here? Back to Brett? The bar? How? What the hell will I tell them?”

“Most people who’ve been kidnapped, drugged, hit, and fucked by someone they hate would go right to the police.” And then he drags that heated gaze over to meet my confused one. “You can go to the police, if you want.”

“Because you’re untouchable? Because you have so many people on your debts and favors list they can’t get you? Because they’re afraid of you?”

“Come on, Syd. I’m one fucking guy.”

“One fucking guy.” I shake my head. “One dangerous, insane, out-of-control guy is more like it.”

He drops his fork on his plate with a sharp clang. “If you want to turn me in, then fucking do it. I’ve decided not to kill you, so—”

“Oh!” I laugh at that.

“—do whatever you want.”

I pour some syrup on my pancakes and we eat in silence after that. He finishes before me and leaves me sitting there as he cleans up his mess in the kitchen. “But if you stay,” he says, his muscled back moving as he wipes the griddle down, “I’ll cook you lunch too.”

He’s trying to fix the mood we have going. I give him a point for that and volley back. “What’s for lunch?”

“Well,” he says, clicking his tongue, “I don’t have much, sorry. I really didn’t expect to have you here at the house, let alone cook you actual meals. I have elk. Lots of elk. So we can have roasts or stew. But we’ve eaten that a lot lately. I have some turkey. And some frozen salmon I caught last spring when I took Sash fishing in Alaska.”

“Hmmm. I bet that was a nice trip.”

“It was. We go every year.”

“I’ll take the salmon.” But it makes me long for the dream guy in my head. He took me fishing too.

“Do you like to fish, Sydney?”

I nod. “Yeah. I do.”

“Maybe you can come with us this year?”

God, that hurts. Because now I know he’s just making this up. He doesn’t like me at all. He’s using me, just like I suspected. He’s trying a new approach. Violence, drugs, and insults didn’t work. Let’s try food and fishing.

“Something wrong?” he asks, turning back to me now that the griddle is clean.

I shake my head and it ends with a sigh. “I’d like to fish with you. That would be nice.”

“Then why do you look like I just killed your dog?”

I take a mouthful of pancakes, but they are cold now. The juice helps me wash it down and then I push my plate away. “Maybe I should just go. I really can’t take it.”

“Take what? Me being nice? You take the insults and the violence just fine, but normal? You don’t do normal, do you?”

“Not that you would know.” I fold my hands in my lap and wish I had my acorn.

He crosses his arms across his chest, flexing his muscles when he does it. I look up into his eyes to figure this out.

Do I believe this is genuine? I could fool myself into believing it, that’s for sure. It would be easy enough to just enjoy him for a little while.

But when he turns on me, that might break me up even worse.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks.

What am I thinking about? “This is a nice place. It feels like a home. You’re surrounded by nature. You seem to have some semblance of a normal relationship with Sasha. You—” I stop, trying to put my sadness into words. “You have so much more than me.”

“I’m just rich, that’s all. I bought the land the first year we got the windfall money. Then spent the next six years building this place.”

I huff out a laugh at that. “You built this place?”

He shrugs. “I hired people, you know. I did some of it. I helped. But no, I didn’t build it myself.”

“I really figured you were squatting here. Living in some billionaire’s summer home for the winter.”

“And I only have Sasha because of you, if you think about it. I would never have that girl in my life if that night at the cabin never happened.”

“Well,” I sigh. “You got a lot more out of that night than I did. I think I should go.” I push back from the bar and stand up. He’s right there next to me before I can take a step away.

“Look,” he says, placing his hands on my shoulders. I still have a bit of pain from where he shot me with—what was it, anyway? A tranquilizer dart, I guess—so that makes me wince internally. But I’m not about to show this man any more of my inner feelings, so I tuck it away. “I get it. This is weird.”

“Weird?” That hardly covers it.

“But you don’t have to go.”

“I don’t have a reason to stay.”

“Stay for me. Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.”