Page 2 of The Wounded Mountain Man

The moment was gone, like it never happened. We've never brought it up, so I like to kid myself that maybe it didn't. Maybe I daydreamed the whole thing. I'm either deluding myself or facing the truth that there's no way a guy like Logan could ever be interested in a guy like me. Especially now in the state I'm in.

I finish showering and notice the tap is leaky. I'll have to fix that. Biting back a grimace, I lift my leg out of the shower-tub combo and guide it onto the tiled floor. Despite initial treatment at Evans Army Community Hospital and months of rehab following the accident, reduced mobility and chronic pain are now a fact of life.

I look around for my towel and curse under my breath when I remember I left it on the edge of my bed. Logan had folded it neatly into thirds and left it there in his immaculately clean guest room when I showed up out of the blue, smelling like I hadn't showered in two days—because I hadn't—after hitchhiking across state lines from Mom's new place in Scottsdale to the mountains of California.

I amble over to the bathroom door, ignoring the dull pain in my leg while brushing water off my arms and chest. The guest room is directly opposite, and Logan's in the kitchen making dinner, so even though my movements are hindered, I should be able to grab my towel and duck back without getting his floors too wet or him seeing me.

I open the door and almost walk straight into the top of a mop of curly dark hair. "Whoa."

Logan straightens, taking a half step back. His impossibly innocent round blue eyes, like a kitten's, are wider than normal as they zoom up and down my body.

My naked body.

My hands fly to my junk. "Shit. Sorry."

He meets my gaze, his cheeks infused with a pretty pink. "No. I'm sorry. I was just leaving you a towel since I figured…"

"I'd leave it on the bed?" I finish for him.

The pink on his face darkens, and he scratches his arm. "Well, yeah." He really does know me better than I know myself sometimes. "Here." He bends over and picks up the towel for me.

"Thanks." I take it from him, our fingers brushing ever so slightly, causing sparks to shoot all the way up my arm to my collarbone. Fuck. Even after all these years, his touch still affects me.

He looks away as I slip the towel around my waist then turns his head back slowly. My belly goes light as that movie-moment sensation returns, reigniting a flame that refuses to burn out.

He rubs the back of his neck. "Dinner will be on the table in three minutes," he says before turning and practically sprinting back into the kitchen, snuffing out any remaining spark of hope I had left.

Guess it's pretty clear Logan and I will only ever be friends.

2

Logan

I race back into the kitchen, my whole body on fire, turn the cold water on full tilt, and run my hands under it, trying to cool myself down.

Wade's arrival this afternoon was unexpected but something my ASD brain can process and manage. Catching a close-up of his wet, glistening body? Uh, yeah. That's another thing entirely. God, I hope I didn't gawk at him like an idiot or say anything stupid. Everything that isn't him standing naked in my bathroom doorway is now a blur.

My fingers start going numb, so I turn the tap off, dry my hands, and busy myself plating our dinner.

Wade showing up on my doorstep, unannounced, disheveled, and absolutely stinking, has caught me off guard. I'm a creature of habit, and I like routines. I've carved out a simple, quiet, some might say slightly boring life for myself in the mountains where things, for the most part, run according to plan.

Monday to Friday, nine to five, I work as a Program Coordinator at the Thickehead Veterans Recovery Center.

I have weekly Sunday dinners with my folks.

A daily chat thread with my brothers that allows me to stay updated on their latest adventures.

Book club at the library two towns over every first Tuesday of the month.

Rufus lets out a loud meow, like he can read my thoughts and is pissed he's not included in them. "I could never forget you." I crouch down and run my hand through his soft, dense reddish-brown fur. Rufus is a rescue Abyssinian and officially the most beautiful cat ever in the history of everything. I give him a scratch under his chin. "You know you're my number one."

Rufus's ears prick, hearing Wade's footsteps before I do, and he rubs himself against my leg, stretches out his neck, and gives me a sly look as if sayingI may be your number one feline, but let's be real about who your number one human is.

"Can I help with anything?" Wade asks.

He's dressed now, leaning against the wall in a clean white T-shirt and gray sweatpants, his wavy dark hair still damp. But the memory of his hard muscles, glistening chest, and long floppy cock isn't going to leave my brain anytime soon, especially since he practically headbutted—or, rather, more accurately, butted into my head—with that thing.

"No, no. I've got it." I leave Rufus. He saunters over to his scratching post while I grab the bowls from the counter and join Wade as he eases himself into the dining nook. I'm trying not to stare in an obvious way, but it's jarring seeing someone who used to be spritely and agile moving so slowly.

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