Envy never did anybody any good. And yet, in that moment, I felt it like an acid wash in my gut. I fucking hated that a sleaze like Fairchild owned this place and got to retreat here whenever he wanted. If there was any justice in the world, Fairchild’s home would reflect his insides and we’d be staring at a dank and empty cell instead of this grandeur.

I swallowed my bitter hate and envy down and put on my game face.

The drive led straight to a massive front door, where a young guy wearing pressed dark jeans and a collared shirt/sweater combo stood waiting. We’d had to pass three security checkpoints before getting to the main house gate a mile back. Apparently, in places like this, the rich owned whole mountainsides, and they didn’t share.

The guy trotted up and held open the door for Parker. Another valet came around to greet me and take my keys. If I didn’t know this was a private residence, I’d think we’d arrived at a resort. It was big enough.

“Mr. Morgan, Ms. Brown,” said Mr. Sweater. “I’m Andrew, Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild’s house concierge.”

House concierge? Who knew?

“As guests are still arriving.” He smiled, tight as a drum. “I’ll see you to your room and get you settled before drinks on the terrace at five. Would you like a mulled-cider cocktail while we walk?”

A waiter in the same sweater-jeans combo—which apparently was some sort of bizarre uniform—appeared with a tray holding two steaming glass mugs. I almost laughed, but I didn’t want to hurt their feelings. Jesus, if I had to cater to Fairchild and his friends, I’d want to launch one of those mugs into the nearest face.

At my side, Parker gave what I was now calling her polite public smile. I hated that smile.

“If we could just head to the room, that would be wonderful, thank you.”

At least we were on the same page when it came to the drinks.

“Of course,” Andrew said. “Right this way.”

The house was as beautiful as expected. That is, if you overlooked Fairchild’s decorating tastes. We entered a grand hall with a wall of windows overlooking the valley and two massive stone fireplaces on either side of the room. Two suits of armor holding spears flanked the doorway. I refrained from rolling my eyes.

Every wall had weaponry and tapestries, and more suits of armor guarded the halls, as though we were in a castle in England instead of a resort in Colorado.

Andrew yammered on about the lake, the heated indoor and outdoor pools, nature walks, movie room … I tuned out and watched Parker instead. I couldn’t help it. She was wearing jeans, and they hugged her ass like a second skin.

Unbidden thoughts crashed in. Parker’s mouth devouring mine. Parker arching her back, her thighs spreading. Parker moaning my name when I slid a finger inside her. God, she’d been so damn tight. Wet. Hot.

Nope. Don’t go there. Not now.

Andrew led us to our room. As far as guest rooms went, it was the nicest one I’d ever been in. Like the rest of the house, it was a study of rough stone and dark woods. We had a corner room with two walls of paneled windows and a set of doors that led to a wide stone terrace. A large iron canopy bed dominated the far side. I kept my eyes off it.

I knew Parker dreaded staying here with me. It was evident in every tight and unhappy line in her body. She stood to the side, looking out the windows as Andrew explained about how to work the fireplace, the electric blackout curtains, where the minibar was hidden. When he started in on what kinds of soap our en suite had, I cut him off.

“I think we got the gist. We’re good now.” I gestured toward the door in an unmistakable sign of “Get the hell out.”

“Of course,” he said, straightening his sweater—the one with aspen leaves knitted into the threads. Poor guy.

“Thanks, man,” I said easier. But as soon as he left, I let my shoulders sag and leaned against the door to look at Parker. She hadn’t moved from her spot by the windows.

Remorse cut into my gut with sharp blades.

“Parker—”

“At least it’s a king bed.” She didn’t look at the bed, though. She kept her eyes away from the entire room. “I’d hoped for a little loveseat, but I don’t think I can curl up on those armchairs. I’m small but not that small.”

There were two chairs set up by the French doors. She’d contemplated sleeping on them. It didn’t matter that she was ashamed of me meeting her family; I’d become something petty and small when I’d lashed out and made her feel this way. As for myself, I felt about two inches tall.