Page 3 of Mountain Man's Surrender

Tom has stopped working and stands frozen beside the toolchest, watching our exchange intently.

“Well, I appreciate your…initiative,” she says, with a curt nod, “but I’m here now, and I’ll be the one handling things from here on out.” She glances around the garage, her fingers absently reaching for the silver pendant at her neck, twisting it in a way that suggests habit. “I’m meeting with a real estate broker tomorrow to discuss an offer he’s received.”

The wrench in my hand slips from my grip before I can stop it. It strikes the floor with a jarring crash that echoes through the sudden silence. I flinch hard, my shoulders hunching reflexively as the sound reverberates through the garage. Heat rushes to my face as I notice her watching my reaction. I don’t pick up the tool, unwilling to show how much my hands are shaking.

“An offer,” I snarl, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. “You’re selling.” Probably to that weasel Derek. The three-piece suit Simon turned down half a dozen times over the past few years. It only took him stopping by once and facing me right before Thanksgiving for the pretty boy to hightail it out of town and not come back. But now…

“That’s the plan,” she confirms as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “After all, Simon left this garage to me.”

I don’t correct her. It wouldn’t help anything. I knew this was a possibility when I called the attorney, but now, standing here facing the reality? It’s unfathomable.

“But,” she continues, “I’m not qualified to, nor am I interested in, running an auto repair shop in the middle of nowhere, Vermont.”

“You can’t just sell this place.” I take a step toward her, as if that will help get through to her. It’s a mistake I immediately regret. The second I’m close enough to touch her, her gaze drops briefly to my mouth before snapping back up to my eyes. Then her tongue darts out to moisten her lips, and my cock twitches in response. The scent of her, something floral, which suits her, fills my senses, making it hard to remember why I approached her in the first place.

“This garage was your father’s pride and joy.”

She snorts and opens her mouth to say something, but I barrel on, undeterred. “It’s the only full-service shop within thirty miles,” I continue. “We’ve got plows that need maintenance and elderly folks who can’t drive to Montpelier for repairs.”

A hint of surprise crosses her face as if she hadn’t considered this, but it’s quickly replaced by that stubborn determination. Simon’s determination. The same expression he got when attempting to fix something everyone said was beyond repair. Our proximity seems to affect her, too, though. Her breath has quickened, and her pupils are dilated despite her rigid stance.

“I’m sure whoever buys it will keep it running,” she stammers, with a note of uncertainty in her voice.

I bark out a laugh, harsh and humorless, and finally bend to retrieve the wrench. “You think some corporate chain will honor the payment plans Simon set up for Mrs. Harper after her husband died? Or keep fixing Earl’s ancient truck for the cost of parts because he plows the lot for free?” The wind howls outside, punctuating my words as if the storm itself is endorsing them. “This isn’t just a business, Ms. Taylor. It’s a lifeline for this community.”

The only remaining lifeline I have, besides memories, to my best friend.

Color rises in her cheeks, and for a moment, I think I might have gotten through to her. But then she crosses her arms, green eyes flashing. The fire in them catches me off guard. There’s something captivating about her when she’s angry. The way her eyes brighten, the flush spreading up her neck. She steps closer, closing the distance between us until the heat that radiates from her body seeps through my flannel and I can see the individual freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose. And hell, if I don’t want her.

Damn it, McCord. She’s Simon’s daughter. Your best friend’s kid. And half your age. Get a grip.

“Don’t make me the villain here,” she says, jabbing a finger into my chest. The contact, even through my flannel, sends an electric current through me. “I didn’t even know this place existed until a few months ago. I certainly don’t owe anything to a town I’ve never been to or to a man who—” She cuts herself off, sealing her lips together.

“A man who what?” I challenge, erasing the last inch of distance between us until I can count the flecks of gold in her green eyes. “A man who never had the chance to meet you? To get to know his daughter?”

Her jaw drops, and her face pales. She takes a half-step backward, her hand flying to the pendant at her throat, gripping it like an anchor.

“What are you talking about?” The words come out as barely more than a whisper.

The honest confusion in her voice gives me pause. The flash of raw vulnerability in her eyes makes something shift inside me. Could she really not know what her mother did? The thought this woman might be genuinely in the dark about what herfather knew, or more aptly, didn’t know, sends an icy shiver of doubt through me.

Outside, a powerful gust of wind rattles the building, and the lights flicker before steadying again. The storm is intensifying faster than predicted. But before I can respond, the bell over the door jingles again, and Mrs. Wilkins bustles in, bundled up against the cold, her round face breaking into a smile.

Aspen

“Landry,dear!”thegray-hairedold woman exclaims. “We were passing by, and I thought I’d check on my Subaru. This storm’s picking up something fierce! Bill says we might need to prepare for power outages.” Her cheerful voice falters as she notices me, her gaze darting between Landry and me with open curiosity. “Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were with a customer.”

“Not a customer,” Landry says, his eyes still fixed on me as if he’s trying to peer through to my soul. “Simon’s daughter.”

The woman gasps, one mittened hand flying to her chest. “Simon had a daughter? Oh, my goodness!”

Before I can step back, she moves toward me with surprising speed for someone her age, studying my face with such intense scrutiny I fight the urge to shield myself. Personal space clearly isn’t a priority in small towns.

“Those eyes,” she breathes, her gaze locked on mine as if seeing a ghost. “Green as summer leaves, just like Simon’s. And that stubborn chin! There’s no mistaking the resemblance.”

I freeze when she pats my cheek, the gesture so maternal and unexpected I don’t know how to respond. “You’re his, all right,” she continues, oblivious to my discomfort. “I can see why Landry recognized you. You’re the spitting image of your father.”

I stand rigid under her examination, desperately trying to maintain my composure while her words nearly knock me over.The spitting image of your father.The father I never knew. The father who, according to Landry, didn’t know I existed. My eyes seek Landry over the woman’s shoulder, which isn’t difficult because he towers over her. I silently plead for rescue as confusion and uncertainty wash over me.

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