Page 5 of The Mountain Man's Siren

He closes his eyes, like he’s shoring up his defenses. When he opens them again, all the mirth that was there during our playful banter is gone. Instead, there’s lust and heat and longing. A longing so powerful it reminds me of a riptide in the ocean. One wrong move and we’ll both get sucked under the current never to surface again.

When he speaks, his voice is barely more than a strained whisper. “Don’t call my name unless you want to end up under me screaming it.”

“Oh,” I drop my hands from my hips, my breath coming out in a whoosh. Other than an awkward prom date that ended in disaster, I’ve never received any male attention. I’m sure some of it had to do with the fact that I attended an all-girls school. Then add to it that both my dad and Uncle Micah are overprotective. It’s a wonder I’ve ever laid eyes on a man.

I lick my suddenly dry lips. “Does that happen with a lot of women that call your name?”

“Only you,” he murmurs and starts to reach for my hair. He drops his hand abruptly and shakes his head.

My heart pounds at his words. Owen might be mysterious, but he doesn’t strike me as a player. He doesn’t lack social graces. He seems to lack the ability to care about them. It makes me think he could be charming if he wanted to be, which he clearly doesn’t.

He steps away from my body. “Find something to do and do it away from me.”

I stare after him watching as he disappears into another bedroom. He shuts the door firmly and my shoulders slump. I thought maybe we were becoming friends. I know it’s silly, but I liked the idea. I don’t really have any of them.

After I check my phone for service one more time and find it’s still out, I head back to the library. I brought my reading tablet but there’s something about the feeling of a real book in my hands. More than that, I’m curious about what Owen likes to read.

I expected to find a lot of thrillers and spy novels. I thought that a man like him would need fast-paced action to keep him glued to his seat. But he has mainly classics. Some of them are first editions too.

When I find a dog-eared copy ofNicholas Nickleby, I pick it up. There are notes in the margin on many of the pages. Little scrawls of black and red ink.

Since I’ve never read this one by Charles Dickens, I settle into a chair and spend the rest of the day reading. As the hours pass, the wind continues to howl and the lights flicker twice. But I’m in front of the fire so I’m warm and comfortable.

Once when I use the bathroom, I come back to find the fire has been stoked and fresh wood was added to it. There’s also a blanket and a cup of hot chocolate waiting for me.

I look around for Owen, feeling a pang of disappointment when I don’t spot him. I don’t understand him. But clearly, hedoesn’t want to be understood. He just wants me to leave him alone.

Well, I got the message. I can spend the next week ignoring the hot mountain man, no problem.

4

EVERLY

There’sa knock on the library door around nightfall.

Owen enters the room. He rubs the back of his neck then stops himself. “Are you hungry? I made chili and cornbread. There’s enough to share.”

He frowns when I look up and he spots the tears on my cheeks. He growls, “What’s making you cry?”

“This book is incredibly sad,” I explain holding up the cover so he can seeNicholas Nickleby. “Why do you keep such a sad book around? You’ve made so many notes in it. You must have read it a dozen times.”

He blinks. “It’s my favorite. You want food or not?”

My stomach grumbles before I can tell him no. I don’t really want to eat with Owen, but I definitely want some food.

He nods as if it’s been decided and steps from the room. He returns a few seconds later with two bowls and a plate piled high with buttery cornbread muffins.

He sets the food on the table between us, and I turn in my chair, twisting around so I can face him. At least, it’s cozy in here.

“Why is it your favorite book?” I ask hesitantly when he’s seated and blowing on a bite of his chili.

He seems to consider the question. “I like his idealism, his belief that his choices can make life better for those around him.”

I wouldn’t have imagined that this mountain man is an idealist. Or at least, I wouldn’t have imagined him as someone who admires them. But I keep that thought to myself. It seems like every time I open my mouth around Owen, I send him away.

A few uncomfortable beats of silence pass between us before he finally clears his throat. He sets his bowl down and says, “My people skills are damn rusty. I’m not used to being around others.”

I frown at him. “It’s no excuse for being an ungracious host.”

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