Page 3 of The Minx and the Mountain Man

Not the kind that wrecks your truck or gets you into bar fights, but the kind that seeps in slow, all sunshine and warmth, melting down walls you spent years building.

I shouldn’t have agreed to this, but I made a promise. And Calloway men keep their damn promises.

The road winds higher up the mountain, the fresh snow soft under my tires. The heater hums, filling the truck with warmth, but I still feel cold. I chance a look at Sadie out of the corner of my eye.

She’s staring out the window, nose pressed to the glass like she’s seeing magic instead of a bunch of trees and rocks.

“Wow,” she breathes, eyes wide. “It’s like a painting.”

I grunt.

She turns to face me, undeterred. “So, do you like it up here? Living in the mountains, I mean.”

I keep my hands steady on the wheel. “It’s quiet.”

Her brow scrunches. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

Instead of getting huffy, she laughs. Like I just told the funniest joke she’s ever heard.

“Okay, Grumpy McGrumpypants.” She crosses her arms and tilts her head at me. “I’ll crack you eventually.”

I tighten my grip on the wheel.No, you won’t.

We don’t talk much after that. It’s better this way. Less chance for her to start poking at things I don’t want poked at.

I let the silence settle, and for a while, it works.

But then she starts humming. It’s not a song I recognize. Just a happy, aimless kind of humming. Like she’s filling the space just because she can’t not fill it.

I exhale through my nose. “Do you always make this much noise?”

She grins. “Oh, sweetheart, you have no idea.”

Sweetheart.

Jesus.

I shift in my seat, staring harder at the road like it’s got the answers to all my problems.

A few minutes later, the cabin comes into view.

It’s nothing fancy. Just a solid A-frame tucked into the trees, smoke curling from the chimney, porch light glowing against the grey sky. It’s the kind of place built for solitude. For shutting out the world.

Sadie doesn’t belong here.

Not because she isn’t capable, but because someone like her shouldn’t be tucked away in the mountains with a man who doesn’t have a single romantic bone in his body.

She belongs in town, somewhere filled with light and laughter and people who talk just to hear themselves talk.

I pull up to the cabin, kill the engine, and hop out before she can start asking more questions. I grab her suitcase from the back and set it on the porch.

She climbs out of the truck and stands there for a second, taking it all in. Then she looks at me with something close to wonder.

“You built this,” she says.

It’s not a question.

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