Page 31 of Forever with the Mountain Man

“I’ll help you with your bag,” he says, grabbing me firmly by the arm and wheeling me back down the hallway toward his bedroom. The voices intensify behind us, seeming to follow us down the hallway.

On the other side of the door, he stares at me dumbfounded for a long, painful moment. “God,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “I can’t. I can’t.” His voice and body shake with rage, and he steps forward, seizing me tightly against his hard core, his breathing labored.

I flood his chest with tears, unable to comprehend what’s going on. But the anger in his house, the voices, the energy, all of it is too much. “Please, help me get out of here. I need to get away from this. Whateverthisis.”

“You must hate us all,” he says quietly, looking down at my red, tear-streaked face. “I’m so sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “They thought you were her, Daphne. That’s why they were being so kind and welcoming yesterday.”

“Oh God,” I whisper.

“Remember how I had reservations about their reception and the way they spoiled us both last night? Now, it all makes sense. And to make matters worse, they neglected to pick Daphne up from the airport, thinking you were her, and so she had to spend the night there, catching a taxi here this morning. She called home to her family livid. And now everyone’s talking about decency and honor. Her family’s trying to charge us for my failed obligation. It’s a fucking mess, and I’m so sorry you endedup in the middle of it. You should have stayed in the bedroom where I left you.”

Taking a deep breath, I reply, “I couldn’t leave you out there to take the brunt of this alone, especially since I had a good inkling that the drama centered around me. Oh, Fierce. I’ve ruined your life. Ostracized you from your family and your homeland, and all for what?”

“For love,” he says without hesitation, snagging his finger under my chin and turning my gaze towards his. “And I would do it over again in a heartbeat to be with you. We’ll get through this. I promise. Just don’t give up on me.”

The screaming from the other room won’t stop. I feel like if they could get to me, they’d rip me limb from limb. I shudder as a bang sounds and then another.

Fierce lets go of me, his face steely as he gathers my bag. “Is this everything?”

“No,” I say breathlessly. “I have some things in the bathroom. Let me go grab them.”

He nods.

Anxiety makes my hands clumsy and shaky, so he finishes packing for me. Staring long and hard at me, he says, “Please remember my family is not a reflection of me.”

“I know,” I nod, shivering from head to toe. He pulls me into his arms, kissing me hard, possession exuded in his firm grip. “I will right this, Felicity. I swear, I will. And they will all show you the respect and love you deserve.”

He wraps his arm around me, leading me down the hallway and back into the clamor of angry people. Fierce’s body exudes a dangerous energy that makes the room go quiet and the crowd part as we make our way outside to my Jeep.

He throws my bag in the back and helps me inside, fastening my seatbelt. Regret and pain flood his eyes, and he whispers, “I am so sorry for all of this, ma luciole.”

“Wait,” I whisper. “Are you going to be okay here alone with everyone? Why not come with me?”

He shakes his head, his eyes clouded. “No, it’s time for me to step up and be the family leader they have asked me to be.”

What does he mean?My eyes plead with him, but he frowns resolutely. Squeezing my hand, he adds, “Write your story the way your heart tells you to.” Then, he steps away, closing the car door and storming back toward his cabin.

Chapter Eleven

FELICITY

Idrive through a blur of tears, repeatedly looking in my rearview mirror. But I miss the moment when Fierce walks back into the house.

No, it’s time for me to step up and be the family leader they have asked me to be.What does he mean?

Waves of guilt for leaving Fierce to face his family’s wrath alone and grief at how things ended wash over me as I drive and drive. I wend my way back to The Human Being, parking out front and finding the place bustling on a Wednesday morning. As I stand in line at the counter, nothing sounds appetizing. Instead, I feel nauseous, like the world is suddenly tasteless, lifeless, meaningless.

Stacey’s eyes still contain the sadness I saw last time, though she works hard to smile and greet me. “Felicity, how was your vacation in Hollister?”

I work even harder to turn the edges of my mouth up and say, “Okay. A lot to process.”

“Did you get the story you wanted?”

I remain keenly aware of the line behind me, but Stacey seems oblivious. “Not exactly.”

I order a Mexican mocha and a croissant, hand her my debit card to pay, and pray the charge will go through. I’ve spent every last cent on this vacation to get a story I no longer know if I can write.

She returns my card, and I turn on my heel, hearing her holler after me, “Hey, wait, Felicity! Remember Jess, the true crime reporter who writes for the Chronicle? She just walked through the door. You two seriously need to catch up.”

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