Page 12 of How to Kiss a Mountain Man

I raise an eyebrow at her. “Says the woman who just lined up her knife and fork perfectly straight.”

She smiles. “You noticed that?”

“I notice a lot about you,” I say before I can stop myself.

She holds my gaze for a moment too long, then loads her fork with pasta. “Your turn.”

I eye the black noodles warily.

“Trust me,” she says.

Something in her voice makes it impossible to refuse. I lean in and let her feed me the bite, extremely aware of our proximity. The rich, briny flavor surprises me.

“Well?” She watches my face, and I realize how close we still are.

“It’s...not terrible.”

She grins in triumph. “Can I have one more little bite of your meatloaf?”

I cut off a perfect bite and hold out my fork. She wraps her lips around it, maintaining eye contact as she pulls back. My cock throbs at the sight. Jesus, the effect this woman has on me…

“See?” I manage to say, ignoring what’s going on in my lap. “Simple can be good.”

“Itisgood.” She swipes a napkin over her lips. “Almost as good as comfort food gets. Though nothing beats a full day of working on cars.”

“I prefer chopping wood.”

“Let me guess—shirtless, like every romance novel hero ever?”

“Romance novels, huh? That’s what you’re into?”

“Yep. I’m a lifelong devotee.”

I study her, fascinated by all the layers of this woman. “What was little Jordana like?”

She smiles at my question. “I was the kid who dismantled everything I could get my hands on. My dad found it amusing, but it drove my grandmother crazy. She bought me a frilly dress for Christmas when I was eight, thinking it would make me more ladylike…and I cut it up and used the fabric to make new seat covers for my bicycle.”

I laugh, not surprised by her story.

“What about you?” Jordana asks. “What were you like?”

“I was a scrawny kid who couldn’t stay out of trouble. Authority figures and I didn’t mix well.”

“What changed?”

“The military. Gave me structure, purpose. Something bigger than myself to focus on.” I stare down at my plate. “Though it left its own scars.”

Her hand finds mine under the bar, squeezing gently. The touch centers me.

“The mountain helps,” I continue. “It’s peaceful, living up there.”

“Does it ever get lonely?”

“Sure. Sometimes. But after everything…I don’t know. I guess lonely feels safer.”

She studies my face. “When was the last time you let someone get close?”

“Before my service. You?”

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