Page 12 of Kissing the Wrong Mountain Man

"I sure did. Life is an adventure, and I don't want to grow old and be filled withwhat-ifs, so…here I am."

"Yeah." Our eyes meet. He swallows. "Here you are."

"Now come on, slowpoke." I jab his side. "Are we hiking or what?"

Twenty minutes of brisk-paced walking brings us to a clearing. "Oh my gosh," I say, breathing heavily as I stare out into the cascading valley of rolling hills below us. "This is incredible."

"It is." He takes a few heavy gulps from his water bottle. "I'd forgotten just how incredible."

"I thought you said you liked hiking?"

"I do. Just haven't done it in a while."

"Well, it's a good thing I'm here, then. We can hike every day."

His forehead wrinkles as he looks at me like I'm a puzzle he can't seem to solve. Eventually, he says, "I'd like that."

We admire the view in silence, and I don't know whether it's the exercise, or being out in the fresh air, or getting married to the man currently standing beside me this morning, but a feeling of peace settles over me.

The last few months have been hectic, and I've been pushing myself too hard, coming off a grueling book tour while trying to plot out my next novel. Next, I discover I'm pregnant, get dumped, and move back in with my parents while I sort out my life. And then, I accidentally kiss the wrong person and wind up getting married and moving in with him for a month. It's more out there than anything I've ever written, that's for sure.

But a month with Brock could be just what I need. A chance to chill out, do some hiking, and get my head and my heart sorted out so that I'm ready for the next chapter of my life.

One that involves bringing a baby into this crazy world all on my own…and definitely doesn't involve falling for the rugged mountain man, who may or may not be a closet romantic.

6

Brock

"Do you play the guitar?" Schapelle asks, and I look up from the bolognese sauce I've got simmering on the stovetop.

We were both famished from the hike, so while she took a shower, I made us an early dinner. She's wearing what I assume are her around-the-house clothes, the same black leggings she had on before, this time with an oversized, white button-down shirt. She looks great, and I love that she's making herself feel at home.

I clear my throat. "Excuse me?"

"I noticed a guitar in the guest room," she says. "Is it yours?"

I kill the heat and let the bolognese rest. "Yeah. It's mine."

"So, you play?" She leans against the white marble top counter.

"Used to. Haven't in a while." I busy myself draining the pasta and filling our bowls, ignoring the churn in my gut. I haven't played that guitar since the night before Lachlan was killed. Even with my back to her, I know she's watching me.

It's hard to explain, but there are times when Schapelle and I are talking where I get the sense she's somehow able to see right through me. She's an author, so it makes sense she'd be good at reading people. The problem is, my story isn't a happy one. And no one wants to hear a grown man's sob story, do they?

We settle into the banquette table in the dining nook, two steaming bowls of pasta in front of us, the fire roaring and filling the cabin with the right amount of warmth.

"This is delicious," she says, slurping up a long strand of pasta.

"Thanks. Nonna's recipe. When she makes it, it's ten times better."

She grins. "Sounds like I have to meet your grandmother, then."

That's the other thing about Schapelle. Things feel so easy and effortless between us. So familiar. Like we're already friends. I've never felt so comfortable around anyone, much less someone I just met.

"Where did the '90s thing come from?" I ask, since I've been curious about it ever since she brought it up.

"I never really liked the music and TV shows that were popular when I was growing up. I mean, any decade that celebrates the Black Eyed Peas has a lot to answer for."

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