Page 30 of Rescued By the Mountain Man

A knock on my door had me looking up, and Connie’s wide blond hair poked in. “Do you want to come down for dinner or eat up here?”

“I’ll come.” I swung my legs out of the covers, got my shoes on, and then stood to ensure I wasn’t wobbly. I felt more than saw her curious look, then gave her a weak smile. “I went riding today and got?—”

“Numb,” she laughed, “Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt and sold it three hundred times. It creeps on you without knowing it. It’s mostly a posture thing. When I started riding, I was told to sit up straight, open from the hip, pull my shoulders back, distribute my weight evenly across the saddle, and remember to breathe.”

“I’ll try to remember that next time,” I said while following her down the corridor and down the steps.

Even before I got to the patio, the food smelled incredible, and the scent of deliciousness had my mouth filling with saliva.

Connie slid open a wide door leading to a patio, and I saw a long, scrubbed wooden table and rows of mismatched chairs. The different chairs, some hard plastic, some wooden uprights, folding chairs, and even an old office chair—only made me feel how genuine and unpretentious this place was.

The table groaned. Foil platters of roast chicken and roast beef, ham, grilled fish, side dishes of plain rice or Spanish rice, mashed sweet potatoes, and roasted vegetables were in an even line down the middle of the table.

Three cowboys were already there, washed up, in clean T-shirts and bottoms—jeans for two and cargo shorts for Isaac—so I asked, “Where is Santos?”

“Oh, that peacock is back in the barracks primping,” Frankie laughed, “Gel in the hair, cologne spritzed everywhere, his best Sunday clothes on.”

I frowned. “Why?”

They burst out laughing.

“You,” Isaac snorted, “You’re the reason. That man is smitten by any pretty face he comes across. It was the thrill of the chase for him, though. He’s not quite a one and done type, but once the novelty wears off, he is on to the next.”

I could feel them looking for judgment on my part. Casually, I reached for a glass of water. “I’ve met a few of those. Hell, a couple of my boyfriends were some of those. So, there is no judgment here. Some people are made free spirits.”

“Santos is freer than others,” Frankie laughed.

“Are we jumping on the Santos is a man-whore train?” Warrick said while settling into the old office chair and stretching out a leg.

His jeans hugged his hips, and the soft cotton of his T-shirt clung to his chest and shoulders, showcasing plenty of muscle on his frame. My head snapped around in case someone caught me staring.

There I went again. This time, my blush burned all the way to my toes.

Focus, Zoe. Focus.

Warrick had washed his hair, and the dark strands curled at his collars. He brushed a wet lock from across his forehead and angled his head. The tendons in his neck stood out when he did, and something inside me tightened at the sight.

My attention was drawn when hard boots landed on the patio, and we all looked up to see Santos tugging out a seat, then stopping. His tan skin glimmered under the black silk shirt as his eyes narrowed.

He cast a suspicious look around the table. “You fuckers told her about me, didn’t you?”

Connie popped a beer. “Right in one, cowboy.”

He flopped into a seat and sulked. “All of you are dead to me.”

“Even me, darlin'?” Marie asked while setting a platter on the table. “Even after I took hours to make your favorite succotash?”

Santos eyed her. “Maybe not you.” Pouring a glass of lemonade, Santos asked, “So now that I have no chance with you, Zara, tell me, what brings you to our lonely neck of the woods? From what I heard, you were in New York first.”

“I was,” I said, keeping my tone even while hedging on what to say or not say. Sipping my drink, I said, “Same thing for a lot of people. I wanted a fresh start, you know. There came a point where working a laundry list of dead-end jobs got to you and you wanted more. And in my case, fresh air.”

“Is the city that bad?” Isaac asked, his nose wrinkling.

“Some of it,” I said, “The pizza gets worse every year, and you can get what you want in like two walking blocks, but it’s all go, go, go every day, all day. And the apartments are like the size of a shoebox for three times the money. It’s easy to get burnt out. Why? Do you want to go there someday?”

“I’d love to, yeah,” Isaac said, “I’m born and bred country folk, so I would like to see a bit of the city one day.”

“I know some people who can help you out,” I said. “Just give me a heads up.”

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