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She captured him on film. He exposed her to love.

Three days later Jacy sat in the Blackwell’s driveway. Her jaw slack from staring at the—log cabin. Scratch that. What loomed in front of the windshield was a mansion made of stone and timbers masquerading as a house.

The center structure soared above a two-story tall porch and a wall of windows. Wings jutted to the left and right. “One, two, three—five.” Her finger bounced from left to right as she counted the number of windows on the right side of the center structure. It was two stories high, with a hip roof and covered porches running the length of the wing on both levels. A turret stood like a sentinel at the end. The left wing jutted forward at an angle. The roof rose like stair steps with a dormer placed on each level. From the first story, beginning far left and rising to the third story nearest the center of the house. 

“Great going, Jacy. You can kiss your new career good-bye. Oh, God. I’ll lose my business, Nana’s—my home.”

Slumping low in the seat, she stared at the—house, hoping it was an illusion. She could drive off. Say no one was home. Better yet, pack up and head west. She still had friends in San Francisco. Maybe she could get a job, start fresh. 

She sent up a silent prayer she was in the wrong place. But the black wrought iron sign a few miles back inscribed with Tumbling B in huge capital letters stretched across the road. 

Images of the man flashed in her head like her camera snapping pictures from what passed for a professional photoshoot. She reached up and covered her heated cheeks. Holy mackerel, who knew a rugged man had such soft lips, a tempting tongue, and an expert using them—down there? The ever-present blush began at her breasts and rose, covering her chest and face to the roots of her hair. 

And her? She’d clutched his head to her breasts like he was a starving baby. His nips, licks, and bites were the supplements he needed. It was when she wrapped her hand around the thick base of his— 

Blood whooshed like water through her ears. Pressure built in her head and chest. She couldn’t breathe. She dropped her head to the steering wheel hoping it was low enough to keep from passing out. The only thought running around in her brain was— “I photo'd porn.”

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Jacy & Trace: A Cowboy Cover Model short romance.