Page 4 of Stolen By the Mountain Man

He opened his mouth and closed it again. In that one move, I knew the answer. Miniature golf was for kids and families, not guys throwing back beers on a Friday night.

“Not much difference, I guess,” he finally said.

I scanned the basement. It wasn’t anything fancy. Just the putting greens, a small kitchen, and a movie theater setup with a gigantic screen and a wraparound couch.

“I figured I’d have movie nights when I installed that,” he said, obviously noticing me eyeing it. “Turns out, mostly the guys come over to watch the game.”

The guys. He obviously spent a lot of time around his guy friends. Perfectly fine with me, but it made me wonder if I’d be able to make my own friends here. I certainly wouldn’t want to hang out while he was having boys’ night.

Come to think of it, I was kind of excited at the prospect of going for drinks with my new girlfriends. Or for dinner. Or whatever else people did around here for fun.

“You’re probably starving,” he suddenly said.

I looked over at him and the look on his face threw me for a minute. As safe and secure as his handshake had made me feel, things still seemed a little awkward between us.

I wasn’t used to people who hid all their emotions. The guy was a complete blank slate. I couldn’t tell if he was happy to have me here, annoyed about it, or ready to send me packing. Would I ever know for sure?

“Starving,” I said. “But I don’t want to be any trouble.”

He made a face at that. Well, he raised his eyebrows just slightly—if that could count as a change in expression.

“My home is your home,” he said. “I’ll see what I can scrounge up. Follow me. I’ll show you the rest of the house after lunch.”

We’d come in this way because the driveway went around to the back of the house. He parked under a deck that was next to the door that led to this area of the house, so it looked like he came in and out through the basement.

He headed up some stairs and I followed him, grasping the railing as I went. Suddenly, it hit me exactly what I’d done, and I stopped on the stairs as emotions overtook me.

Was I crazy? I’d left my home—the only home I’d ever known—to move in with a stranger. To marry him, no less. And itwas possible, when he found out the truth, he wouldn’t want to marry me anyway, and I’d be left high and dry. I’d have to go back home and admit to my sister what I’d done.

My sister. She’d find out eventually too. Would she be furious? Would she even care? Probably. I was using her name, and I’d changed my appearance to look as much like her as I could. We were both blonde, but her hair was lighter, so I’d gone in for some highlights around my face right before I left, telling everyone I was just lightening up for spring.

“You coming?”

Isaac’s voice from the top of the stairs jerked me from my thoughts. I was being a big baby. A twenty-three-year-old acting like a fourteen-year-old crying over being homesick at a sleepover.

I was better than this. I was braver than this. I wanted a life of adventure, not one spent living in the same dang town where I’d been born and gone to elementary, middle, and high school. I couldn’t let the farthest I ever traveled be the suitcase college I attended a half-hour from home.

“Coming!” I called out.

I pasted a smile on my face and began walking, this time climbing twice as fast as I’d climbed before. Isaac was gone from the doorway by the time I got to the top, which made me feel a little better. My legs were actually shaking, and I definitely didn’t want him to see that.

On wobbly legs, I stepped out into the big, open room that was his cabin. It had very little furniture. Just a table near the kitchen area and a sofa with a much smaller TV near the door. Why did I get the feeling this guy spent most of his time in his basement, even when his friends weren’t here?

“I wasn’t sure what kind of sandwiches you like, so I bought a little bit of everything,” he said. “I figured I’d take you to dinner at the ski lodge to celebrate our engagement.”

I looked over at him. He was standing in front of the fridge, door open, pulling packages out of a crisper tray.

“Ski lodge?” I asked.

I started walking toward him, figuring I could make my own sandwich. I wasn’t going to have him wait on me. After all, he’d said my home was his home.

“It’s the only place in town to get alcohol,” he said.

“We don’t have to go somewhere that serves alcohol.”

He closed the fridge door and turned to face me. My gaze was scanning the various sandwich meats he’d set out. This guy had the makings of a charcuterie board, minus the board.

“It’s not the alcohol,” he said. “It really is the nicest place in town. With ski season winding down, it’s not as busy as it has been the past couple of months. Most of the locals stay away until spring, although there are a few who plant themselves on a barstool and hibernate there for the winter.”

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