Page 7 of Connecting with the Mountain Man

Is this… is this a breakup?

Can you even call it a breakup if you’ve never met the guy? I thought things were going well. That we had something going. And then he does this.

God, that’s pathetic.

I let out a long breath, tapping my nails on the edge of the laptop.

RuggedRoots was supposed to be the one good thing I had going. Our little email exchange was harmless, but it mademy days feel brighter. Less lonely. Like someone out there actuallysaw me.

And now he’s just… done?

That’s it?

Fine.

If he wants to disappear into the mountains, that’s his problem.

It’s not like Ineededhim or anything.

It’s not like I was picturing what he looked like when he smiled. Or wondering if his hands were as rough as his words made them sound.

It’s not like I stayed up late, reading his emails over and over, just to feel close to someone.

Nope. None of that happened.

I ignore the way my heart sinks lower with each passing second.

I have more important things to focus on.

Like the twenty trays of scones I need to make for tomorrow. Or the fact that the kitchen still smells faintly of smoke.

Shit.

The oven timer dings, but it’s too late. The burnt smell has already wormed its way into every corner of the kitchen. Why is my whole life one big disaster lately? I swear I’m a great baker, I just feel… off my game lately.

I sigh, grabbing a towel and yanking the tray out with all the grace of someone fending off an intruder. The scones—well, what’s left of them—look like they could be used as hockey pucks.

Perfect.

As I’m glaring down at my latest failure, the bell over the front door jingles.

I don’t even have to look.

I know exactly who it is.

The air shifts—like the shop itself knows he’s here. The room feels smaller when he’s here, like the space can hardly accommodate the six-foot-something stubborn male now standing by the door.

Silas Matthews.

I know the heavy thud of those boots like I know the smell of fresh bread. It’s ingrained. Muscle memory. His walk has a weight to it—slow, deliberate, like he’s not in a rush for anyone.

He never is.

And I can practicallyfeelhis eyes scanning the room, that assessing gaze that always lingers too long. Not that he ever says anything. No, Silas isn’t the type to make things easy. He prefers to act like I’m invisible.

Well, most of the time.

Other times, he looks at me like I’m something he doesn’t quite understand. Like I’m a problem he can’t fix.

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