Page 17 of Twins for the Mountain Daddies

I turn to find Holt leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching me with barely concealed amusement.

I square my shoulders, ignoring the fact that he’s now shortened City Girl to a simple CG. “I can figure it out.”

Holt doesn’t move, just quirks a brow. “Sure you can.”

I press another button. The machine lets out a violent gurgle, sputters, and promptly shuts off.

I scowl. “This thing is broken.”

Holt exhales through his nose in an attempt not to laugh at me again before stepping forward and nudging me aside with acasual hand on my waist. The brief contact sends a jolt through me, but before I can dwell on it, because he’s already working the machine like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

“You know,” I grumble, crossing my arms, “for a machine that’s just supposed to make coffee, this thing is stupidly complicated.”

Holt shrugs. “It’s not complicated. You just don’t know what you’re doing.”

I glare at him, but he simply sets a steaming mug in front of me without another word. I hesitate, then take a sip.

It’s perfect.

I mumble a begrudging “thanks” before carrying my prize over to the table, where Wyatt is already digging into a plate of eggs and toast. He gestures to the seat across from him with his fork. “Come on, eat before Hank goes full dad mode and starts lecturing you about keeping your strength up.”

I sit, reluctantly grabbing a piece of toast. Holt joins us, his expression unreadable as he tears into his food like he’s preparing for battle.

After a few minutes of quiet eating, Wyatt wipes his mouth and grins at me. “So, you up for a ride?”

I blink. “A ride?”

“On the four wheeler.” He leans back, throwing an arm over his chair. “Figured you might wanna get out for a bit, see the mountain. Better than being cooped up in here all day.”

I snort. “Yeah, that’d be great—if I had the clothes for it.” I gesture to my sweater, my thin leggings, my completely impractical fuzzy slippers. “I packed everything except what I actually needed.”

Hank makes a low sound that might be agreement—or disapproval. “Noticed.”

My eyes narrow. “Oh, did you?”

He takes another bite of his food, completely unbothered. “What kind of person books a winter trip to the mountains and doesn’t pack for the cold?”

“My trip wasn’t supposed to include getting stranded in a remote cabin.”

“That’s life,” he says, his voice as dry as the firewood stacked by the hearth. “Doesn’t give a damn about your plans. Besides, if that cabin you rented had been legit, you’d still be stranded—just without food. Maybe you should be thanking your lucky stars I happened upon you”

I bristle, irritation flaring. But before I can come up with a scathing retort, Holt swoops in. “Come on, Hank. Cut the poor girl some slack. She’s adjusting.”

Hank grunts.

That’s the thing about him—he’s gruff, impatient, and makes it very clear that he does not want me here. But the cracks are starting to show.

Like the extra blanket I found folded neatly at the foot of my bed.

Or the quiet way he explained how to add more logs to the wood-burning stove when I woke up shivering one morning.

Or the cup of coffee he set in front of me without a word, exactly how I like it, before stomping off to start his day.

I watch him now, the way his jaw tics, the way his broad shoulders tense like he’s holding something back. Maybe he’s not all bad.

Maybe he’s the kind of guy who pretends not to care, even when he does.

Or maybe he’s just an asshole. I don’t know.

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