Page 11 of How to Kiss a Mountain Man

But even as I reassure him, I wonder if he’s right.

5

GRIFFIN

Icheck my reflection in Betty’s rearview mirror one more time, tugging at the collar of my dark blue button-down. The fabric feels stiff and foreign against my skin after months of wearing nothing but work shirts and t-shirts. Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t have bothered changing. Jordana didn’t say anything about dressing up for dinner, and now I’m worried it looks like I think this is a date.

But tonight is definitely not a date. It’s just another attempt at showing the town I’m not the monster they think I am.

Out on the street, Fairhope bustles with evening activity, locals enjoying the mild spring weather. String lights twinkle between buildings, casting a warm glow over couples and families strolling the sidewalks. A few people glance my way as I step out of the truck, but their looks feel less hostile than usual. Progress, maybe.

I head up the narrow stairs to Jordana’s apartment, each step bringing me closer to her. My hand hesitates before knocking, remembering the last time I was here, and how close we came to kissing that night. For a moment, all I can think of is thewarmth that was in her eyes. The invitation in her parted lips. The infatuation I felt for her.

I push the memory away and knock.

Her door opens, and every coherent thought vanishes from my mind. Jordana stands before me in a dark green jumpsuit that hugs her curves, her hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders. The sight of her hits me square in the chest.

“Hi.” Her voice carries a hint of shyness I’ve never heard before.

“Hi.” I clear my throat. “You look beautiful.”

Pink colors her cheeks. “Thanks. You clean up pretty nice yourself.”

Her eyes trail down my chest and arms, lingering on where I’ve rolled up my sleeves. The air between us crackles with the same electricity from the other night.

It would be so easy to step forward, to finish what we started.

But that’s not why we’re here.

We walk to the restaurant side by side, our arms nearly touching. As townspeople pass by, their gazes seem more curious rather than condemning. One elderly woman even offers a hesitant smile.

When we reach the restaurant, the hostess gives us an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, but we’re completely booked. There’s about an hour wait for tables.”

“The bar’s open,” Jordana says, glancing up at me. “If you’re okay with that?”

I nod, following her to two empty seats. As we settle in, her knee brushes against mine. The contact sends heat racing through my body, and I shift in my seat, trying to give her more space. But she doesn’t move away.

“So.” She picks up a menu. “What looks good to you?”

“The meatloaf.” I barely need to look at the options. “Simple. Reliable.”

She studies her menu, and I find myself watching her profile, the way she bites her lower lip in concentration. “Let me guess,” she says. “You’re the type who orders the same thing at every restaurant?”

“I like knowing what I’m getting. What looks good to you?”

“Hmm.” Her eyes meet mine, a quiet challenge in them. “I’m considering the squid ink pasta with uni butter.”

I can’t hide my grimace. “That sounds...”

“Exciting?” A smile plays at her lips.

“Terrifying,” I admit.

She laughs softly, the sound doing dangerous things to my pulse. “Tell you what. I’ll let you try a bite of mine if you let me try your safe, boring meatloaf.”

The playful challenge in her voice makes me want to prove her wrong about me. “Deal.”

When our food arrives, Jordana takes a bite of my meatloaf, and I try not to stare at the way her lips wrap around her fork. “This is actually really good.” She watches me methodically cut into my meal. “You’re very precise with everything, aren’t you?”

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