Page 31 of Mountain Hero

“I think that’s a great idea. It’s something I’ve been thinking about, but I didn’t know where to start. I would love that.”

Then I look at the purpling bruise on her forehead and add gently, “But I want you to rest first, okay? You have a concussion, and it’s important you take care of yourself first.”

“Okay, Enzo. Rest, and then a new design package for the store.” Then she gives me a quick hug and she feels so damn perfect pressed against me…

Just friends. Just friends.

It doesn’t matter how I feel.

She needs a friend, and that’s what I’ll be for her.

CHAPTER 9

WINTER

No matter how many times I remind myself why Enzo and I should only be friends, my heart seems to have a different idea.

Over the last few days, I kept running through all the reasons why it’s better to keep some distance between us. Why it’s not a good idea to let myself rely on him this much.

Every time my heart makes a little flutter because of something Enzo does—buying twenty varieties of coffee pods so I’d have plenty to choose from, going to my house and packing up all my clothes so I wouldn’t have to keep wearing the same ones over and over, sitting up every night watching movies with me because he knows it’s the only way I can fall asleep—I drag out all the reasons again.

My last relationship turned into a disaster of epic proportions. Clearly, I can’t be trusted to make good decisions about men.

I’m definitely dealing with some level of PTSD, based on the flashbacks and nightmares and fear I can’t seem to shake.

As my counselor said when I met with her virtually yesterday, I should be focused on my mental and emotional well-being and finding ways to cope with the trauma I’ve been through.

I didn’t mention Enzo, but I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t approve of the thoughts I’ve been having.

Like when we were watching Animal House last night—another movie my dad used to love—and our legs brushed against each other, leaving behind a delicious, tingling heat. And I thought about how nice it would be if we watched movies like that all the time, not with Enzo as my protector, but my boyfriend.

When he took me on a short walk around his property yesterday and lifted me over a tiny stream I could easily have jumped over, insisting he didn’t want me jostling my head, I spent the next ten minutes thinking about how good his hands felt framing my waist.

Then my mind started wandering as I wondered how Enzo’s hands would feel touching me in other, less chaste places. Places a friend would definitely not be exploring.

But it’s not just how my body comes alive around him after months of dormancy. It’s the way he makes me feel safe. Cared for. Important. It’s impossible not to trust him.

And I don’t think it’s all one-sided, either. Aside from when he said he couldn’t stop thinking about me—which I could attribute to simple concern—I’ve noticed the way he looks at me when he thinks I don’t notice. Sometimes it’s appreciative, like when I catch him glancing at my butt as I’m leaning over to put something away. And other times, his gaze is soft and affectionate, like he’d like us to be something more than friends.

Still. The practical side of me urges caution. It says to wait until things have settled before even considering pursuing something with Enzo. The irritating, boring, logical part of my brain says things like I could be forming an unnatural attachment to Enzo because he’s the one who’s helping me. His care and affection could be misplaced guilt, since I know he feels awful that I was being held captive right in town and he never realized it.

Not that it’s remotely his fault. We had some great conversations and there was some kind of connection between us, but he had no reason to think anything suspicious was going on. It’s not like we were dating and he had a reason to look for me.

The annoying part of my brain tries to squash my little fantasies of spending weekends with Enzo, hiking and spending time with his friends and introducing him to Aunt Linette and Violet.

Violet would approve, though. She’s a hopeless romantic. And when I talked to her the other day and explained everything, once she stopped crying and apologizing for believing I’d say such terrible things, she said, “But this Enzo. You say he’s really sweet to you? And he’s just helping because he wants to? Is he cute, too?”

No. Enzo isn’t cute. Cute is for puppies and twenty-something boys who wear khakis and button-downs and immaculate jeans. Enzo is tall and strong and ruggedly handsome and his clothes are worn in all the right places to show off all his very impressive muscles.

Speaking of Enzo…

He comes into the office wearing olive-green cargo shorts that I never imagined being sexy before I saw him wearing them, and the sleeves of his gray Henley are rolled up to show his muscular forearms. They’re a slightly darker golden shade than yesterday, tanned after he spent a couple hours outside doing yard work while I pretended to nap but actually kept sneaking looks at him through the window.

Yes, I was supposed to be resting. But his shirt was off and his skin was glistening with sweat and the way his shoulders flexed as he pushed the lawn mower…

Logic may tell me to be cautious, but my heart and body don’t seem to agree.

“Winter, are you working?” Enzo’s tone is lightly scolding, but he’s smiling as he says it. “I thought you were going to rest for another few days?”

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