Page 11 of Twins for the Mountain Daddies

The guest room door cracks open, and Hank’s newest stray slips out like she’s trying not to be seen. I lean back against the kitchen counter, nursing a mug of black coffee as I watch her tiptoe out of her room.

I pause mid-sip, watching as she moves—quick, quiet, like she’s trying not to be seen. But it’s not the sneaking that gets me. No, it’s the outfit.

Gone are the oversized sweats she rolled in with. In their place? A skin-tight turtleneck, sleek black leggings, and—Jesus Christ—fur-lined boots that alone probably cost more than Hank’s damn truck.

I fight the urge to whistle. Damn. She's like a snow goddess lost on our rugged peak, looking more ready for a photoshoot rather than a mountain cabin.

Instead, I lean back, stretching out long and lazy, and watch as she flounces across the hall, completely oblivious to the factthat she’s strutting through the middle of a goddamncabin in the woodslooking like she’s about to hit the slopes in Aspen.

She disappears into the bathroom without a glance my way, and I huff a quiet laugh. Yeah, this is gonna be interesting.

"Looks like you've found yourself quite the stray this time, Hank," I say without taking my eyes off her as she disappears into the bathroom. "Never seen one that...pristine."

Holt, of course, is already digging for details the second Hank steps into the kitchen.

“So, what’s her deal?” He leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, that shit-eating grin firmly in place. “How’d you end up with a pretty little thing like that?”

Hank shoots him a look that could level a man. “Her car got stuck. The cabin she rented was a scam. She’s here until she figures it out. That’s it.”

Holt isn’t deterred. “Uh-huh. And you just happened to bring her here instead of sending her back down the mountain?”

Hank grunts, reaching for the coffee pot like this conversation is already over. “Storm’s rolling in.”

“That’s convenient.” Holt smirks, dodging the dish towel Hank throws at him.

I chuckle into my mug, settling in to enjoy the show.

“She your type? She’s definitely mine.”

Hank’s scowl deepens. “She’s not anybody’s type. She’s a stranded city girl who needs a place to ride out the storm. That’s it.”

Holt whistles low. “Damn, touchy. Didn’t say I was gonna take a run at her—though, if she’s interested…” He lets the thought hang, just to get a rise out of Hank.

Hank mutters under his breath, then downs half his coffee like it might fortify his patience. “She’s calling someone to come get her, and then she’s gone.”

I glance toward the window, noting the way the wind’s already whipping through the trees. The snow’s falling heavier now, fat flakes piling up fast.

Holt and I exchange a look.

“No way she’s going anywhere tonight,” I argue, tipping my mug toward the window. “Storm’s rolling in faster than expected. We’re looking at nearly a foot by morning.”

Holt nods, pushing off the counter. “Guess that means we’ve got ourselves a houseguest.”

Hank grunts again, but this time, he doesn’t argue. Not much they can do about it now, anyway. She’s here.

The bathroom door creaks open, and all three of us fall silent as she scurries back toward the guest room, her ridiculous fur boots nearly silent against the floor. Her hair is still up, but it looks less like she got in a fight with a blender. It’s smoother now, a few damp strands clinging to her neck. Her cheeks are still pink from the cold—or maybe from whatever thoughts are rattling around in that pretty little head of hers.

I chuckle to myself, shaking my head.

“Like a damn fish out of water.”

Hank exhales sharply, clearly at the end of his rope. Without another word, he stomps off toward his bedroom, but just before disappearing down the hall, he stops and turns back to us.

Hank's gaze locks onto me, then Holt. His eyes are like chips of flint, sparking with a warning that says more than words. He jerks his head toward the hallway leading to his room, his message as clear as the mountain streams outside. "Behave," he growls, the single word a commandment in our little sanctuary.

I nod, keeping my face neutral. No need to stoke the fire. Hank's protective streak is legendary around these parts, and I've got no interest in crossing lines. Not when it comes to Hank's strays.

Holt, though, he's another story. He stands there, arms loose at his sides, lips twitching into a smile that's too angelic to trust. The innocent act doesn't fool anyone, least of all Hank. It's like watching a pup pretend it didn't chew your boots—amusing, but transparent.

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