Page 45 of Claimed By 3 Mountain Men

He shrugs.

“Probably a little nicer place than that tent.”

My eyes narrow as I study him. “I like my tent. It’s quiet. I can eat in peace.”

He holds up his hands innocently. “My bad. Didn’t mean to insult you.”

“What is it about you, Hank?”

“What do you mean?”

“The way you look at me. It’s like...” I trail off, unsure of how to complete the sentence. “I want to understand.”

“Is this the part where I confess all my darkest desires? About all the family secrets and the reason why we’ve been so tough on you?”

“No…” my voice catches as though I’ve been caught and for a moment, I fear I am way out of my league right now. “It’s just... you and your brothers. You all hate me so much but now you’re being... nice.”

He leans back in his chair, and I notice his jaw clenching. “We don’t hate you...”

“But?”

He sighs. “It’s complicated.”

“Listen, Iamsorry about your father.”

“It’s the past. We’re over it.”

“Are you?”

Hank shifts in his chair.

“I don’t have a choice and you don’t really have a choice on staying on our property.”

“I understand,” I say. My fingers curl tightly around the fork. “I’ll leave.” I say the words, but I don’t believe them and I’m not so sure he does either.

“Oh. don’t do that,” he groans, rubbing his eyes with his hands.

“Do what? Isn’t that what you want?”

“No. I mean yes. But that’s not what I’m talking about.” He runs his fingers along the stubble on his jaw. “You. That face you make when you get serious. You bite the corner of your lip, and it makes me?—”

“What?”

He stands up abruptly and walks over to the window. I can see the ripples of tension on his back beneath his thin t-shirt, as he takes a deep breath. “Nothing.” He turns to face me, his expression as neutral as possible. “You should finish eating and then get some rest. It’s late.”

12

BEN

Ipace the length of the hallway, the wooden floors creaking beneath my boots, the sound drowned out by the howling wind and driving rain. It’s late, but sleep is the last thing on my mind. I can’t shake the image of Mac—drenched, shivering, her wet clothes molded around the curves of her body.

I stop outside her door, hesitating, my hand hovering just inches from the wood. Light seeps out from the crack beneath, a faint, warm glow.

Taking a deep breath, I knock softly, barely loud enough to be heard over the storm.

“Mac. It’s me. Ben.”

There’s a brief pause, and then I hear her voice, muffled but clear. “Come in.”

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