Page 55 of Twins for the Mountain Daddies

"Maybe because we like what we see," he says simply.

"What you see isn't real," I say before I can stop myself. "It's all..." I trail off, not wanting to explain the facade, the years of pretending, the carefully crafted image that bears little resemblance to the woman underneath.

"Bullshit," Holt says, his cheerful demeanor slipping for the moment. "We've been watching you for weeks now, CG. The real you slips out more than you think. Mistakes make you human."

I stare at him, caught between horror and fascination. "And you still want to take me on a date?"

"More than ever," Wyatt says, and his expression makes my chest tighten.

I look down at my “coffee”, trying to process this. This is crazy. I'm still sorting through the wreckage of my life, trying to figure out what's next. The last thing I should be doing is getting involved with anyone, let alone three someones who live in a world so different from mine.

Well, two someones. Hank doesn’t want me; he tolerates me.

I literally just got out of a four-year relationship with a man I thought I was going to marry. Oh, look at that. I am a naive child.

I don’t get a chance to give them an answer, because Hank walks into the kitchen. He doesn't move from the doorway, just stands there, a mountain in flannel pajama pants and a worn T-shirt that hugs his broad shoulders. His hair sticks up on one side, and there's a pillow crease on his cheek. It makes him looksofter, more human, less like the intimidating giant who often barely speaks two words to me.

He nods at Wyatt and Holt, barely acknowledging the conversation, then catches my eye. There's a moment—brief, charged—but it’s gone just as fast as it began.

"Breakfast," he announces, moving to the refrigerator with the steady purpose of a man on a mission.

Wyatt and Holt exchange a look, then push back from the table simultaneously. "I need to check on that leak in the guest bathroom," Wyatt says.

"And I promised to call the station," Holt adds, already backing toward the doorway. "Make sure they don't need me today. Snow’s cleared enough I can use the four wheeler to get down if I need to."

They're gone before I can process what's happening, leaving me alone with Hank. The kitchen suddenly feels smaller, the air as thick as the very unappetizing “coffee” I’m trying to force myself to finish.

Hank pulls eggs, bacon, and sausage from the refrigerator, setting them on the counter with methodical precision. He doesn't speak, doesn't look at me, just moves with the quiet confidence of someone in their element. Or someone very strategically trying to ignore little ol’ me. Can’t say I blame him. But we live together, so I’d like to clear the air sooner rather than later.

I clear my throat. "Need help?" The words come out raspier than I intended, and I take a sip of my cooling coffee to cover it up.

Hank glances at me, then nods toward a cabinet. "Pancake flour is in there. Bowls above the sink."

I find the bag of flour—this is the real deal, not the shake-and-pour stuff I used to buy—and grab a mixing bowl. "About last night," I begin, not sure where I'm going with this.

"Don't," Hank says, the word soft but firm.

I look up, startled. "Don't what?"

"Don't apologize for being human," he says, echoing Holt's words from earlier in a way that makes me wonder if this is a phrase they all use.

"I wasn't going to apologize," I say, though maybe I was. It's a reflex at this point—apologize first, so I don’t have to deal with the fallout later. Call it self-preservation. "I was going to thank you.”

Hank nods once, accepting this. He reaches for a cast iron skillet that hangs on the wall, his movements unhurried. "No need."

We keep working side-by-side in silence. Hank preps the pan, tossing in the bacon, and then starts slicing the sausage into patties. The knife makes wet sounds before clacking against the cutting board. I’ve never found the scent of raw meat appetizing, but this is… it’s like the smell intensified—raw, primal, suddenly overwhelming.

"I'm going to start the coffee pot again," I say, looking for any excuse to move away from the counter. "We'll need more when the guys come back."

Thankfully, Holt left it set up. All I need to do is add some grounds and press the pretty flashing button this time. Hank grunts in acknowledgment, still focused on his task. I move to the coffee maker, putting my back to him and taking shallow breaths through my mouth. This is ridiculous. I'm normally not squeamish.

I literally watched Hank skin a rabbit for a stew that I then ate.

But the smell follows me, clinging to the air. I measure coffee with shaking hands, trying to focus on the task and not the growing nausea in my gut.

Behind me, Hank adds the sausage to a separate pan, and the sizzle sends another wave of scent through the kitchen—fat rendering, meat cooking, normally appetizing but now incredibly, intensely wrong. My stomach lurches.

I grip the edge of the counter, closing my eyes and willing the sensation to pass. Maybe I'm coming down with something. A flu, a stomach bug, anything to explain this sudden aversion.

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