Page 6 of How to Love a Mountain Man

“You’re missing out on a life-changing culinary experience,” he adds cheerfully.

“I’m not interested in life-changing experiences,” I mutter, but the aroma of garlic and herbs is becoming impossible to resist. My stomach growls again, louder this time.

His laugh carries through the door. “I heard that. Look, I promise not to be annoyingly helpful during dinner. We can eat in complete silence if you want.”

I press my fingers to my temples. The thing is, I know exactly how this will go. He’ll try to be charming and put me at ease, andI’ll sit there struggling to string two words together. The silence will stretch too long between responses, and I’ll overthink every awkward moment. And then I’ll spend the rest of the evening replaying every painful interaction, reminding myself why I prefer to be alone.

But I’m so hungry. And it smells so good.

“Fine,” I call out. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

His footsteps retreat downstairs, and I take a deep breath. I can do this. It’s just dinner with a neighbor. A very attractive neighbor who makes me even more socially awkward than usual, but still. It’s just dinner.

The kitchen is warm and bright against the storm’s darkness, filled with aromas that make my mouth water more than I want to admit. Julian moves through the space with easy confidence, stirring sauce and checking bread like this is just an ordinary evening at home.

I hover uncomfortably in the doorway, not sure where to stand or what to do with my hands. Construction materials are still stacked along one wall, but somehow Julian has carved out a functional workspace. Warm light spills from overhead fixtures, catching the steam rising from pots on the stove.

“There she is.” He glances up from the pasta with a grin that makes my chest tight. “Would you mind unpacking some plates for us? They’re in that box by the pantry.”

I nod, grateful to have something productive to do. The box reveals a set of pristine, brand new white plates, the kind that nodoubt cost more than my monthly grocery budget. I lift out two, their weight solid and expensive in my hands.

Then one tilts. My stomach drops as I watch it slip out of my fingers in slow motion. I reach out, straining to catch it before?—

Oh,no. The shattering of ceramic on flooring pierces the air. Instinctively, I step backward and my foot catches on the uneven transition between the temporary flooring and the unfinished surface. Before I can catch myself, I lose my balance, my foot sliding across a shard of broken plate in the process.

Pain slices across my skin. I grab for the counter, but it does nothing to dull the sharp ache radiating from my foot.

“Shit.” I look down to see blood already staining the unfinished wood floor. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“Don’t move.” Julian is at my side in an instant, his hand steady on my elbow. “There’s broken ceramic everywhere.”

“I’m so sorry. Your plate—and the floor—” I try to step back, but pain shoots up my leg the moment I put weight on my injured foot.

“Forget the plate.” His arm slides around my waist before I can protest. “First aid kit’s in my bathroom. Come on.”

I want to wave away his help and deal with this mess on my own, but my throbbing foot and the ceramic shards surrounding me make that impossible. He tightens his grip on my waist, and despite how self-conscious it makes me feel with his hand settled there, I let him guide me forward.

He guides me through his house, taking most of my weight as I hobble alongside him. His bathroom is massive—of course it is—with a rain shower and double vanity that’s clearly just been installed.

“Sit.” He gestures to the edge of the tub and I sink down gratefully, my injured foot throbbing. When he pulls a first aid kit from under the sink, I hold out my hand.

“I can take care of it myself.”

He raises an eyebrow at me. “Your hands are shaking.”

I pull them back immediately, tucking them against my stomach. I keep them there as he kneels in front of me and gently lifts my injured foot onto his knee. His touch is impossibly warm against my skin, and I try not to think about how close he is, or how his cologne fills this small space.

“This might sting a bit,” he warns me.

“Ow!” I jerk back as he cleans the cut. “Abit?”

“I’m being as gentle as I can.” His voice is soft and his hands remain steady, carefully clearing away the blood. “Almost done with this part.”

I swallow as I watch him wrap the gauze with practiced efficiency, trying to ignore how his fingers brush against my skin.

“I’m really sorry about the plate,” I say. “And the blood.”

“I was having second thoughts about that set anyway,” he says, the corner of his lips lifting. He secures the bandage with medical tape. “Maybe this is a sign I should’ve gone with the blue ones.”

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