Page 18 of The Minx and the Mountain Man

Sadie

I’m so warm when I wake up. It’s the kind of warmth that wraps around you, sinking into your bones, soft and safe. The kind that makes you want to burrow deeper, to stay in that perfect half-dream state where nothing bad exists, where last night lingers like a promise instead of something that might slip through my fingers.

A slow, lazy smile tugs at my lips as I shift, stretching slightly. Then I feel it.

A solid, steady heartbeat against my back. A strong, warm arm draped around my waist. A heavy sigh, stirring my hair.

Reid.

Awareness rushes in, a slow burn that spreads through me, heating every inch of my skin. Memories flicker like a film reel in my mind—his hands gripping my hips, his mouth claiming mine, the rough scrape of his stubble against my throat, the way his body moved with mine, unrelenting, desperate.

And his eyes.

I close mine now, trying to chase away the sting in my chest, but I can still see them—stormy and searching, like I was something he wanted but didn’t know how to have. Like he felt it.

That scares me almost as much as it thrills me.

I stay still, barely breathing, as if one small movement will shatter whatever fragile thing exists between us because I want this to be real. More than I should. More than I ever let myself admit.

But then, it happens. A slow tensing of his muscles, his fingers twitching against my stomach like they don’t belong there. The warmth disappears as his arm slides away, and the loss is immediate and jarring.

I don’t move. I don’t say a word. I just listen.

The rustle of sheets. The creak of the old wooden floorboards as he sits up, running a hand through his messy, sleep-tousled hair. The heavy sigh, the low curse muttered under his breath. And then, the words that gut me.

“This shouldn’t have happened.”

The ache is instant. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the words away, but they settle in my chest, weighty and unshakable.

It shouldn’t have happened.

I force a breath, pushing up onto my elbow, schooling my face into something light and teasing, even as my heart threatens to crack open. “Well, that’s a pleasant thing to say first thing in the morning.”

Reid doesn’t look at me. His jaw clenches as he pulls his shirt over his head, muscles flexing, his back rigid.

“It was a mistake.” His voice is rough and quiet.

I press my lips together, curling my fingers into the sheets. “Huh. Funny. I don’t remember you thinking it was a mistakelast night.”

He exhales sharply, still refusing to face me. “We got caught up.”

Got caught up. Like last night was nothing. Like it didn’t matter. Like I don’t matter.

I sit up fully now, gripping the sheet to my chest, my nails digging into the fabric. “And that’s all it was to you?”

His silence is unbearable.

I swear I see something flash in his expression—hesitation, regret, something real—but then he shuts it down, like slamming a door in my face.

“It can’t happen again, Sadie.” His voice is firm. Final. “This isn’t a real marriage.”

I swallow hard, staring at him. My throat is tight, my chest hollowing out, but I refuse to let him see how much this hurts.

I should argue. I should remind him that we’re married, that we’ve been dancing around this for days, that last night wasn’t just two people looking for comfort in the middle of a storm. But what’s the point?

Reid Calloway has already decided this was a mistake. And I refuse to beg someone to want me.

I force a smile, bright and brittle, sharp enough to cut. “Got it.” My voice is light and casual, like his words don’t hurt. “Loud and clear.”

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