Page 180 of Mountain Boss

He gives me advice on what to do if I see one again.

I ask if he’s ever had pets.

He’s quiet for a moment before he tells me about the dog he had growing up.

His fingers trace circles on my arm as he talks about the lab mix his family adopted from the shelter.

His fingers still when he tells me how hard it was to put him down when he got old and frail.

I rub circles on his chest as I tell him how much I’d love a dog. How, if I had one, I’d want it to be one that sticks to my side all day.

He asks what breed of dog I’d want.

“I wouldn’t care.” I close my eyes, imagining it. “I just think it would feel good to save one from a cramped kennel. Give them a home where they could run around a bit.”

As I say it, I see the parallel. The way I want to help someone avoid the enclosed existence I’ve felt trapped in for far too long.

Sterling kisses the top of my head.

Then he does it again, with his arms tightening around me.

I press my lips together.

Then I blow out my breath and ask him what his favorite season is.

He tells me fall.

And when he asks me mine, I tell him spring.

Sterling explains what the winter is going to be like up here.

I promise him I’ll buy boots when I buy my jacket.

And I resist the urge to ask him if I’ll still be working here in January.

It’s a fair question. One I will eventually need an answer to, but asking about it right now feels wrong.

So I don’t bring it up.

Instead, we talk about how we both hate the holidays. How he avoids his family drama and chaos by working through them—either on real work outings or going out on trips with his bachelor friends.

I explain how I still talk to my mom, but it’s not often. And that I’ve rarely been able to afford to travel to see her. And how she claims it’s always too far to drive backjust forone day.

I admit how much it hurt over the years. And how I’ve come to terms with it.

And then we keep talking.

Sterling tells me about the time he went rafting with his friends and nearly drowned as a teenager. How he got grounded for a month, and his mom made him eat brussels sprouts with every meal as added punishment.

“That’s actually pretty brilliant.” I smile against his chest

“Joke’s on her. By the end of the second week, I’d started liking them.”

“Seriously?”

I can feel him nod. “If she’d just given me plain steamed ones, I probably would’ve hated them the whole time. But she was eating them, too, and clearly got sick of having them plain. So she started roasting them with maple syrup or sautéing them in butter.” He rubs his hand over his stomach. “I need to ask Cook to make some soon.”

We talk more about food and getting in trouble.

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