Page 7 of Rescued By the Mountain Man

It was only unfortunate that this damned one-sided attraction had lodged itself in the middle of my gut and wouldn’t leave.

I did not think my attraction to her was because I’d gone so long without any kind of intimacy, although that wasn’t helping. I almost wished I had a girlfriend—it would provide a buffer. No, it was because something in Zara stirred something inside me—it sparked a fire that I’d let slumber for years.

“Get your notebook out,” I told her. “We need to start now.”

She did so, and the painful realization that she had not acknowledged my apology or accepted it made the air between us that much tighter.

Turning to the stalls, I heard her say, “I accept your apology.”

Tipping the Stetson back, I pivoted, “Sorry? What did you say?”

“I accept your apology,” Zara replied, swallowing. “And I am sorry for making you feel like a sexist pig,” she paused. “Wait…you’re not one…are you?”

“No,” I said, a measure of relief washing through me. “I’ve been told I am a surly bosshole, though,” I threw over my shoulder as I headed to the line of tents, an Artisanal Sausage vendor, a name that had gotten him grief all his life. At five foot nothing and broad like a brick shithouse, he’d put his name and stature to work.

“Billy,” I called over, lifting a hand.

He looked up from the hand grinder. “Warrick, good to see ya. It’s been what? A couple months since you came down from that ranch o’ yours. Can I interest you in a sample of my newest creation, Caribbean spiced veal sausage?”

“Perhaps later,” I said as Zara came to my side. “This is Zara Harrington, my new assistant.”

Billy squinted. “Your new assistant? Are you sure? She’s too pretty to be a PA. Darlin’, is this man holding you against your will? Blink twice, and I’ll stuff him with so many bratwursts, he won’t be able to move.”

She giggled. “That’s very chivalrous of you, but no, I’m okay. Thanks for offering, though.”

“We’re here on behalf of the mayor,” I said. “We just need to get the final roundup for who will be offering services at the fair in a couple of days so we won't get in trouble when taxes roll around.”

“Oh,” Billy shook his head. “Well, what do you need?”

After I outlined what I needed from him, including his work hours, assistants, produce, and such, I had twenty variations of that same conversation with other vendors, and before I knew it, three hours had passed with me on my feet. A twinge in my thigh from the old injury warned me that if I didn’t take it easy soon, there would be hell to pay, but I pushed on.

By the time we were done making the rounds, and I walked—almost damned near limped—back to my truck, I took note of Zara’s telling silence. Hauling myself into the driver’s seat, I heard when she closed the passenger door.

“This is a lot of notes,” she said, shuffling through the papers on her lap. “It might take me all night to get this into a spreadsheet.”

“You’ve got a couple days,” I said while jamming the key into the ignition. “Don’t stress about all of it tonight.”

We were halfway down the main road when she quietly asked, “What happened to your leg?”

The very same question I’d hoped she wouldn’t ask.

“Old bull riding injury,” I said as I turned off the lane, heading to Millie’s Diner. “Six years ago. Had a bad ride from the get-go on the spinner. I don’t know what kind of mind frame I was in when I got on that bronc, but I had to be stressed and distracted because my balance and concentration were off.”

“Fucker tossed me over the horns, and I landed badly. Broke my knee and femur in two compound fractures. Took me a year to recover; by then, going back was out of the question. It was my life’s work, and I could never go back.”

She mumbled something under her breath. I didn’t know what exactly she’d said, but I thought I had heard her say, “Tell me about it.”

I shot her a look as she fixed her glasses and stared studiously down at the papers in her lap. What was that about?

Chapter Three

Zoe

The mom-and-pop diner I stepped into looked torn straight out of the ’60s. Honest-to-God red vinyl booths and black-and-white checkered floors met my eyes, and thin eyelet curtains fluttered in the breeze. The smell of warm spices, freshly brewed coffee, and crispy, salty bacon clashed with the sweetness of cherry pies.

I watched Warrick gingerly walk to a booth at the back of the room, and when he plucked his worn Stetson off and rolled his neck, I could see the fine lines gathered in the corners of his eyes. Quietly, I wondered what his face would look like without the beard. A shadow of stubble, dark against his skin, would look good on him…but I had to admit this wolfish beard was hot, too.

If he kissed me, I’d feel the scrape of his beard against my skin…and his stubble in other parts, too…

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