Page 27 of Forever with the Mountain Man

“It is yours now, too,” I remind quietly. “If you want it.”

“What I want is you,” she replies decisively, snuggling into me and resting her head against my chest. I savor the feel of her warm breath shed on my chest. “Fierce, there’s something I need to confess to you. But I’m afraid you’ll get mad at me.”

My body stiffens instinctively. I can’t imagine anything in the world she could say that would make me angry with her. But I bite my tongue, not ready to tempt fate.

“I was never completely honest with you about why I joined Mountain Mates, and I should have been. I’m sorry.”

I clear my throat, my heart stalling at the apprehension edging her voice. “What do you mean?”

“I’m a relationship columnist with the San Francisco Chronicle, and I write a column kind of like a tame version ofSex and the City. Are you familiar with the TV show or movies?”

“Not really,” I say, my mind jumping far ahead of what she’s saying. “Do you mean you write about sex or something?” I try to keep my voice steady, but my brain spirals.

She chuckles. “No, it’s not like that. I write about the foibles of dating and relationships in the twenty-first century in the city. And things like meeting people at nightclubs, wine tastings, churches, singles groups?—”

“And dating sites like Mountain Mates?”

She nods against my cheek, curling into me, even as I straighten, drawing back slightly. “How do I put this?”

“Just say it.”

“You are my eighth story.”

I grimace, trying to wrap my head around her words. “So, you’re telling me all I am to you is a story?”

“No. I mean, yes, at first. But then, as things heated up between us?—”

“This is not good,” I say quietly, running my fingers through my thick black hair and looking at the play of the firelight on the ground next to my chair. “And what is my story about, Felicity?”

“My editor wants it to be about how stupid country folks are. How awful you are to date, and why, ultimately, the city still has better choices. That’s the story I was supposed to find here with you. But what I’ve found is the complete opposite.”

We sit silently for a long moment as I try to process her revelation.

“Fierce, don’t you have anything to say? You’re scaring me.”

“I am the eighth article, so you’ve done the same thing with seven other men to sell stories? Did you share their beds and say you loved them, too?”

“Of course not!” she gasps. “You make me sound like a call girl or something.”

“I’m trying to understand the scope of your articles and how I fit into them.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You don’t fit in. Not at all because I fell in love with you, so I can no longer finish the series and will likely lose my job over this.”

I can hardly believe my ears. “Wait, you would risk your career for me?”

“I would risk my career for us,” she says, palming my cheek and turning my head towards her face. Her cheeks are tear-streaked, and it shames me that I’ve done this to her. But my mind is still spinning, trying to sort out everything.

“Do you have any questions?” she asks, knitting her brows.

“What will happen if you don’t write the last article?”

“I’ll lose the promotion I’ve been working so hard for at the Chronicle, along with potential book deals and journalism awards.”

“And you would do that for me? For us?” Emotion grips my voice now.

“Of course. I love you, Fierce. But there’s something else you have to know about me.”

I exhale, feeling my heart pound again, steeling myself for something awful. Shame grips her voice. “I’m poor. Like really poor. I have thousands and thousands of dollars of student debt, and I can barely make ends meet as a freelance writer. You saw how old my Jeep is. I mean, it’s a miracle it made it allthe way here, and I live in South San Francisco in this shitty, scary neighborhood. The article would’ve helped me change all that, so if I don’t submit it, you have to understand what you’re getting. I can bring nothing to our relationship. If anything, I’ll drag you down.”

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