Page 9 of Connecting with the Mountain Man

“Mary,” I snap, spinning toward the front of the shop where she’s calmly refilling sugar jars like the world isn’t tilting under my feet. “Take care of the tables. I’ll be in the back.”

Mary barely glances up. “Sure thing, boss.”

She doesn’t question it. She doesn’t even blink.

Of course, she doesn’t.

Because Ialwaysdo this.

I always run to the kitchen when Silas Matthews pushes me too far. When he makes me feel like I’m sixteen again, flushed and awkward and harboring the world’s most ridiculous crush on my brother’s best friend.

And even though I swear to myself I’mnotdoing it this time…

My feet still carry me through the door.

I’ll just hide out back for a while. Not because I care. Not because him acting weird has me in a twist. I’m just… regrouping.

Regrouping.

Finding out if everything is okay with the sink that’s all I’m doing. He’s already crouched under the sink, toolbelt slung low on his hips. And I swear to God, I forget how to breathe.

The flannel stretches tight across his broad back, lifting just enough to tease me with a strip of golden skin. Tight muscles ripple beneath it as he shifts, jeans hanging low—low enough that the deep, sinful dip of his hips isright there.

My core clenches, molten heat rolling through me in waves.

I should look away, but I don’t. It’s pathetic how long I stand there, blatantly ogling him like I’ve never seen a man before.

But it’s not justanyman. It’sSilas.

Big, growly, pain-in-my-ass Silas, who somehow manages to look like every dirty fantasy I’ve ever had while fixing a damn pipe.

And those hands—God, thosehands.

Thick and rough, scarred from years of hard work. There’s dark hair dusting the backs, his knuckles squared and strong as he twists the wrench.

I stare at them longer than I should, teeth sinking into my bottom lip as my mind spins off in directions itdefinitelyshouldn’t.

Because all I can think is—what would those hands feel like somewhere else?

Sliding down my waist. Gripping my hips. Fisting in my hair as hetakes me apart.

My thighs press tighter together, a deep throb settling low between them.

Shit.

It’s just plumbing. But I swear to God, watching Silas under that sink is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. I step closer, arms crossed over my chest to keep from fidgeting. But every inch I move winds me up tighter, like I’m a walking live wire.

He shifts again, and I swear my pulse jumps right along with the flex of his forearm. Big, capable hands. Hands that could pin me down without even trying.

“Eden.”

His low, gravelly voice snaps me out of my fantasy, and I flinch, cheeks blazing.

Oh God. Did I say something out loud?

I force my eyes up—awayfrom those sinful hands—and find Silas watching me, one brow cocked like heknows.

“Can’t work with you hovering like that.”

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