The Comforts of Home by Jodi Thomas Page B

rambling old ranch house with her mother, her daughter, and her two great-aunts. The place had so many guests and relatives and ranch hands dropping by he was surprised it didn’t have a revolving door. Claire’s art studio was on the third floor, in what had been the attic. He’d have to get through two floors of relatives to even see her. She was right, the hotels probably were easier.
    Denver figured he wouldn’t be welcome at the ranch for breakfast and they’d probably shoot him if he tried to leave in the middle of the night. When Hank Matheson, the only male on the ranch, married and moved out, the women had Denver’s friend and army buddy, Gabe Leary, put in a first-class security system. Denver knew he could slip through the system, but their having it wasn’t exactly a welcome mat.
    Claire could come to his place, though. Maybe not for the night, but for a few hours. He’d built on a huge kitchen and a master bedroom bigger than most apartments he’d rented. His place looked nothing like the old farmhouse he’d bought two years ago. Only Claire had never been there.
    Putting his Glock in the safe, he pul ed the drapes open and watched planes take off and land. She’d said she was landing twenty minutes after him, but she didn’t want him to be at the gate. As always, she wanted him to meet her alone, away from everyone. He’d attended her art shows in a dozen places, eaten meals with her family when they were both in Harmony, and stood near when she’d won awards for her paintings, but their affair had to remain a secret from everyone. Denver couldn’t even tel his best friend, Gabe Leary, because Gabe was married to Claire’s sister.
     
    This was one hel of a mess where affairs were concerned. He felt like they were flying under the radar and it was just a matter of time before the blip showed up.
    Denver barked a laugh and turned to pour his first whiskey. What they had wasn’t an affair. He hadn’t looked at another woman for two years. He didn’t need a band on his left hand to know they belonged together. Claire wasn’t a passing fancy, she was his life, and it hurt al the way to his core to know he was no more than an accessory in hers.
    He watched his reflection in the crystal glass. He saw a man distorted. Parts. No whole.
    The door lock clicked. Denver turned, bracing for the beauty of her to hit him like a tropical storm.
    She didn’t disappoint. Dressed in black with only a touch of white col ar showing, she stepped into the room.
    Her long, wine-red hair was tied in a knot at the back of her neck, but he could feel it in his hands already. She looked at him with bottomless brown eyes and smiled. His heart started up again. Sometimes he felt like those characters in Brigadoon . He lived only when she was with him; the rest of the time was just existing. They’d seen each other a few times that first year, and each time had been wild, like a lost moment in time and reality. The second year they couldn’t get enough of each other. Every month their paths crossed, always at hotels near airports. She left him fulfil ed, satisfied, and planning the next encounter.
    Only lately, once a month wasn’t enough, not nearly enough for him, and he stil wasn’t sure she real y liked him .
     
    . . or even knew him, but he had no doubt she needed him.
    She’d given up tel ing him how much she hated him and al men after they’d made love in New York for the first time.
    She’d been setting up for a big show and he’d had a three-day layover. They’d spent it in bed unable to get enough.
    He’d added love, Denver to his texts and whispered how he adored every part of her, but he’d never told her straight out. He wasn’t sure how he’d react when she didn’t answer back.
    Each month she seemed to be more popular in the art world. Her paintings of men dying horrible deaths seemed to have caught on. Apparently every woman knew at least one man she’d like to see barbecued over an open