Page 3 of Saved By the Mountain Man

How does he look so freaking good when I’m an absolute mess—literally and figuratively? This version of him is so far from the boy I left. No. This is a man. He was tall and lean in high school. This one is pure muscle and hard, chiseled features. His mohawk is gone, thank God, and his raven black hair is now short and messy. It suits him, especially with the full beard.

When he slides his windbreaker sleeves and I see the lines of corded muscle trailing up his forearms, warmth weaves its way through my body. Even with all the shit I still have to deal with, at least one thing is clear—whatever attraction I have to him hasn’t waned one bit.

He used to give me this look of longing, and that was all it took for me to jump him.

I want to launch myself into his arms, tell him everything that happened, and beg for his forgiveness even though I don’t deserve it.

There wasn’t a day when I never thought of him. I imagined coming home to him, unloading every emotional baggage, and letting him take care of me again. I struggled with the urge to come back here multiple times, and the only reasons why I didn’t were because I wanted to punish myself and because I knew if I saw him again, I wouldn’t have the strength to walk away a second time.

This current Matthew’s hand wraps around the rifle strap, and my eyes zero in on them. That’s the same veiny hand that used to explore every inch of my body, those long, thick digits sliding in and out of me and curling to hit the spot that drove me wild.

Heat surges through my cheeks. Why is this the direction my mind chooses to go? Is there a wrong place and time to be horny? Because this is it.

Raw desire seeps into my bones, and I draw in a deep breath because I think I’ve forgotten how to breathe or function as a human.

“Goldie, come.”

His deep baritone voice and those words snap me out of my reverie.

I say, “Goldie? Like my pet goldfish?”

Something passes his features, and he crosses his arms over his broad chest. God, everything about him has increased in size—the frame, the shoulders, the arms, the chest, the thighs. Now, what if…?

Stop it, Danika. Stop. You’re losing it. Don’t even go there, for Christ’s sake.

Matthew lifts a brow at me. “She’s a golden retriever. Hence, Goldie.”

“Ah, clever. Of course.”

He doesn’t answer, and I don’t know what to say to fill the silence either. His gaze continues to linger on my face, dropping stealthily to my lips before his eyes harden.

Awkwardly and with zero grace whatsoever, I lift myself on my feet and sway slightly, my legs forgetting how to move. In a heartbeat, Matthew is beside me, cupping my elbow, steadying me.

The touch is so unexpected but one I’ve longed for that I let out a soft, breathy sound at the contact. The air changes between us, and several conflicting emotions dance across his face, his nostrils flaring, jaw flexing like it might snap.

The rush of cool air brushes my skin, but I burn where he touches me. I feel the longing all the way deep into my bones, and I curl my toes in my shoes, my core clenching.

“Why are you camping right now?”

That question and his brusque tone break the tension between us, and I yank my arm back, wrapping the jacket tighter around me. Just like that, I forget the ache, the desire, and the need to be touched by him.

Instead, I remember why I’m here in the first place, and the painful lump of emotion that’s been taking up residence in my chest contracts again.

God, it’s been a shitty day. No, week. No, month. No, year. If I’m honest with myself, it’s been shitty since I left.

First, I got fired. I worked in that company for five years as a book cover designer and graphic artist for promotional materials, and they replaced me with the manager’s nephew, who couldn’t even tell the difference between purple and indigo.

Second, my roommate kicked me out. She said her boyfriend of three weeks wanted to move in and found it weird to have a third person living with them.

I couch-surfed for two months, applied to countless other companies, and tried to push on. With my dwindling bank account balance and the unfortunate dynamic duo of anxiety and depression joining the fun, I ultimately decided to come home.

I wanted to surprise my dad, but I had to regroup first. Which was why I decided to go on a camping trip. It said a lot about how long I was gone because it didn’t cross my mind to check the weather.

All of those misfortunes and stupid decisions led me here.

In front of Matthew. Who’s clearly unhappy to see me.

I can’t blame him. After all, I left Sweetheart Falls with big dreams. I thought I would come back in style and not with my tail between my legs.

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