Page 5 of Kissing the Wrong Mountain Man

I turn back to Schapelle. "There's your guy." I choke on the words and cough awkwardly.

"Yeah, I guess he is.Was. I don't even know anymore." She blows out a breath and stares at her glass like she wishes it was filled with something stronger than water, then turns to me. "I'm so sorry for…all of this."

"For all of what?"

"For the out-of-the-blue kiss. And for the trauma dump. I can't even imagine what you must think of me right now."

She's right. She probably can't. Because I amcompletelymesmerized by her. My heart races, the same way it used to after a round of ammo can lifts. But this is way,waymore pleasurable. I may be sorely out of practice with women, but even I know revealing any of this would be coming on way too strong.

"It's fine," I assure her. "You're fine."

She straightens. "Enough about me. Assuming you're not just sitting here to be polite to the crazy pregnant lady, tell me something about yourself. Did I hear right that you haven't left your cabin in a while?"

Did I let that slip? I must've. That's not like me. "Uh, yeah."

"Is there a story behind that?"

I drain the rest of my whiskey. "There is."

She scans me with those piercing eyes. "Are you a Vet?"

"I am. How did you guess?"

"Military brat," she answers. "My dad was a logistics officer. We bounced around bases all over the U.S.—Virginia, Texas, North Carolina. I have a sixth sense for spotting military, or former military, personnel."

The pride in her voice settles me. I don't like talking about my service, especially not with strangers, but sitting next to her fills me with a sense of calm I can't explain.

I check to make sure she still has water before ordering myself a double neat. The whiskey burns as it slides down.

I open up about my two deployments. Both were in the Middle East. The first was handling security operations. My breath hitches when I talk about running convoys and coordinating logistics on the second tour, and I hope she doesn't notice. "Both were tough, but I did my job and got through it," I say, trying to shake off the heaviness in my chest. I've let my guard down, revealing more than I should have.

She doesn't reply with the standard, 'Thank you for your service.' In fact, she doesn't say anything at all. Instead, she runs her hand up and down my forearm before giving it a firm squeeze. And somehow, that small gesture says more than words ever could.

"You from around here?" she asks, pulling her hand away.

I nod. "Got a small cabin just outside of Cedar Creek Hollow. You?"

"My parents live here, and I'm staying with them while I figure…" She looks down and runs her fingers across her stomach. "…things out."

I'm curious about her pregnancy, and even though I'm not normally a violent person, I'd like her to point out her scumbag ex so I can acquaint him intimately with my fist for treating her the way he has. But instead, I settle for, "Where's home usually?"

Her lips stretch, but the attempt at a smile doesn't reach those magnetic blue eyes. "I don't have a base. Moving from place to place must be in my blood. Dad left the military, and he and Mom have settled down. So have my sisters. But I've never stopped." She lets out a sigh. "I used to love the thrill of exploring new places, but in the past few years it's become…exhausting. And after my last book tour, where I experienced a rough few weeks of morning sickness, which has thankfully stopped, I am well and truly over it."

"You're an author?"

"I am."

She just keeps on getting more and more intriguing.

I ask her about her work and hang on every word as she tells me about the romcoms she writes with '90s throwback vibes—because she's obsessed with all things '90s—under the pseudonym Lori Connors.

That leads to a discussion about her favorite '90s TV show,Dawson's Creek, which she's watched beginning to end, "At least ten times."

She asks me about my cabin and listens as I tell her about all the work I've been doing to it.

"The cabin was a good price for a reason," I begin.

"A fixer-upper?"

---