Page 19 of Kissing the Wrong Mountain Man

And then there are the things I still haven't figured out.

The story behind the bronze statue on the mantle thatbelonged—past tense, noted—to a friend.

His hesitation when I first asked him to play the guitar a few nights ago.

Why he's isolated himself from the world. I have a feeling it's related to his second deployment, and it could possibly be some form of PTSD. But growing up in a military family has made me acutely aware of the nuanced issues veterans face, so I don't want to jump to any conclusions.

And then there's the thing I'm most unsure of—how does he feel aboutme?

I've blown into his life out of nowhere and have taken over his space and disrupted his life. Is he simply being polite and putting up with me, secretly counting down the days until I'm gone and he can finally get some peace and quiet back, not to mention his check for fifty million dollars?

My heart sinks that that's all this could be, because it feels like there is something real between us.

Or is that my author brain playing tricks on me?

It's hard to differentiate sometimes. I have a history of rushing into things, and what could be more rushed than marrying a guy you've only met once and moving into his cabin? That kind of rash thoughtlessness has led me to heartbreak before, seeing only what I want to see in men, without taking the time to read the signs that only become clear to me in hindsight.

But with Brock, the signs really are all good. It's a forest of green flags.

But aren't you meant to be done with men?

Oh, yeah. That.

Shoot.

With a sigh, I push to my feet and head toward the deck.

I slide open the glass door and zip up my hoodie when the crisp air hits me. Brock's worn, yellow plaid flannel shirt fits snugly over his broad frame, and a smile sprouts on his lips when he sees me.

I move toward him. "Hey."

He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. "Hey."

"Thank you."

"What for?"

"For keeping me stocked up with water and snacks this whole time. I'm so sorry I haven't noticed before now."

"You were in your zone. I hope I didn't disturb you."

My heart swells. None of my exes were ever this considerate. In fact, most were low-key jealous of my success, and that in some instances, I made more money than they did. One of them even said he felt like he was competing for attention with my writing.

And here's Brock, not only supporting me, but doing it without me even having to ask for it.

"That's very sweet and thoughtful of you. I appreciate it."

I take in his face—his warm eyes, his strong nose, those lips that are both gentle yet firm to the touch—and I'm suddenly overcome by a desperate need to feel those lips on mine again. Despite knowing it's probably a bad idea, my feet shuffle toward him, my hand lifts to his shoulder, my toes push me off the floor.

Our lips meet, and his hand presses into the small of my back. The tender warmth of his mouth and the secure hold of his grip sends yummy tendrils of pleasure spiraling in every direction throughout my body.

His kiss is slow and reassuring, making me feel safe and wanted. There's no rush, his mouth moving with purpose and the confidence of a man who knows how to treat a woman properly.

I finally lower, pulling my lips gently away from his.

"What was that for?" he asks, grinning as he holds me in place.

I stare up into his kind, expressive eyes. "You didn't sayyou're welcome."

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