Page 15 of Rescued By the Mountain Man

"What is this?" I asked, my voice dangerously calm despite the rage building beneath my sternum.

She sat up fully now, clutching the quilt to her chest as though it might shield her from what was coming. "It's not what it looks like."

"It looks like I'm your guinea pig." I held up the notebook, pages flipping open to reveal more of her observations. "Your damn research rat."

"Please, let me explain—"

"Explain what?" The calm in my voice shattered, giving way to the anger I'd held in check. "How you've been analyzing me since you got here? Taking notes on my scars, my habits? Speculating about my sex life?"

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, reaching out as if to take the notebook. I stepped back, putting it beyond her reach.

"I'm a writer," she said, voice small but steady. "A romance novelist. I came to Montana because I've been struggling with my latest book."

"So you decided to use me as inspiration?" The betrayal cut deeper than I would have expected. "Poor damaged veteran, living alone in the woods. What a convenient character study."

"No, it wasn't like that. Not at first." She stood now, arms wrapped protectively around herself. "I rented a cabin to getaway from New York and the pressure. To find what I was missing for my book. The crash was an accident. Meeting you was never part of my plan."

"But you adapted quickly." I flipped to another page, reading aloud: "'His reluctance to discuss his injuries suggests trauma beyond the physical. Perfect backstory for a character seeking redemption through love.' Is that what I am to you? A character sketch?"

Her eyes filled with tears, but I felt no sympathy. I'd been betrayed before, manipulated by people who saw my service or my injuries as defining characteristics rather than parts of a whole person. But this seemed to cut deeper, feel more personal.

"My latest manuscript was rejected," she said, voice trembling slightly. "My editor said my writing lacked authenticity, that my love scenes felt forced. I thought getting away, experiencing something real might help me break through."

"Experiencing something real," I repeated, disgust coloring each word. "So I'm just material for your sex scenes? Is that it?"

Color flooded her cheeks. "No! I mean—it's more complicated than that."

"Seems pretty simple to me." I tossed the notebook onto the bed between us. "You needed details to spice up your story, and I was convenient enough to provide them."

"That's not fair," she protested, a spark of anger finally breaking through her embarrassment. "You're more than research to me."

"Save it." I moved toward the door, needing distance before I said something unforgivable. "I pulled you from thatcar, gave you my bed, shared my food. And you've been documenting it all, looking at me like some lab specimen—"

"I've never written anything like this before!" she interrupted, voice cracking. "My feelings, my reactions—they're real, not fictional."

I laughed, the sound harsh even to my own ears. "Right. The sophisticated New York writer, slumming it with the scarred mountain recluse. Great plot twist."

"You don't understand." She stepped forward, desperation evident in her stance. "I write about passion and desire that I've never experienced myself."

That stopped me, confusion momentarily overriding anger. "What?"

She closed her eyes briefly, as if gathering courage. When she opened them again, they filled with water. "I've published six romance novels. Bestsellers with...explicit content. But I've never..." She swallowed hard. "I've never been intimate with anyone. Not really."

The confession hung between us, unexpected and jarring.

"You're telling me you write sex scenes for a living, but you're a virgin?" Disbelief colored my words.

She flinched at my bluntness but nodded. "I guess that makes me a fraud.”

"And I'm supposed to feel better because of this?" The anger returned, perhaps even stronger for the momentary confusion. "You came to Montana to what—find a test subject?”

"No!" Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. "That's not how it happened." She took astep toward me, eyes pleading. "Yes, I was taking notes. Yes, I found you... compelling. But what's in that journal isn't just professional observation. It's personal. More personal than I've allowed myself to be in years."

I shook my head, unwilling to be swayed. "You write fiction for a living. I imagine you're good at making things sound convincing."

Hurt flashed across her features, quickly masked. "I deserved that, I guess. But I'm telling you the truth now. My attraction to you isn't research—it's real. Probably the most real thing I've felt in a long time."

"Attraction." I practically spat the word. "You don't know me. You know the damaged veteran you've constructed in your mind, the one who fits neatly into your narrative."

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