Page 6 of Mountain Man's Surrender

She snorts softly. “No.” Her eyes meet mine briefly before darting away. “There’s no one back home I need to call.”

The truck lurches suddenly as we hit a patch of black ice. Within a millisecond, I correct the wheel before we spin out of control. At the same time, Aspen’s hand shoots out, grabbing my thigh as if it’s her only hope of survival. I flinch at the unexpected touch, only inches from my cock. Adrenaline shoots through my veins, and I wish it was from the loss of vehicle control and not the searing heat of her palm through my jeans. But in my world, wishes are a waste of time. They never come true. Especially now, when I’d kill for her hand to inch higher, to trail those fingers over my rock-hard length, now impossible to go unnoticed through my jeans. But she withdraws quickly, a flush crawling up her neck.

“Sor-sorry,” she stammers, her breath coming fast as her hand clutches the grab door handle.

“It’s fine,” I manage, my voice husky as I lie through my teeth. I shift in my seat. Nothing about the way my body responds to this woman isfine. She’s Simon’s daughter and young enough to be mine, if I’d had one as young as he did. Plus, she’s planning to sell the garage out from under the town. These facts circle in my mind like a warning, yet they do nothing to extinguish the heat that spreads through me, the desire to pull this woman into my lap and prove howfineher touch is.

I crack my window, sucking in a biting lungful of frigid air, determined to clear my head as the road narrows. Thank god, we’re nearly there. Although, on second thought, maybe, I shouldn’t be so relieved considering the size of my place.

“Will we be able to get back to town? After the storm?” There’s a hint of nervousness in her voice.

“Depends how bad it hits. Might be a day or two.”

Her eyes widen. “A day or two? But I have a meeting with the broker tomorrow.”

“Nobody’s going anywhere in this.” I nod toward the thickening white curtain outside. “Not even your big city broker.”

A flash of irritation crosses her face. “He’s from Burlington, for heaven’s sake. Which, I regret to inform you, is nowhere close to a big city. And I need to sell the garage, Landry. Nothing you’ve told me changes that.”

My teeth grind, but I keep silent. Aspen’s on a roll and keeps going, whether from nerves or what, I’m unsure. “Plus, I have a life in New York. I mean, sure, I’m thinking of moving, but it certainly wouldn’t be here to run a garage. I have plans.”

I grunt, focusing on navigating the last curve, a particularly sharp one, just before the pull-off to my place. “That so?”

“Yes,” she insists, twirling the ring on her thumb. “I make jewelry, mostly silver.”

“Jewelry?” I can’t help the surprised lift in my voice.

Her eyes narrow defensively. “What, you think a city girl can’t work with her hands?”

The corner of my mouth twitches against my will. “Just trying to picture those manicured nails wielding a blowtorch.”

For a moment, I think I’ve offended her, though the image of her doing just that is, without a doubt, the sexiest thing I’ve ever conjured up.

A reluctant smile tugs at her lips. “Shows what you know, mountain man. I keep my nails short precisely because of the torch work.” She wiggles her fingers at me, and sure enough, her nails are practical, if still polished bright red.

I push aside the image of them wrapping around my cock, tucking it away for later when I’ll have to take care of things alone, and blow out a long breath as we round the final bend. But the second we turn, the truck’s rear tires slide. The engine whines as they lose traction.

“Shit,” I mutter, easing off the gas.

My cabin’s only about fifty yards ahead. A sturdy structure of weathered logs nestled among towering pines. It’s barely visible at the moment, standing silent and dark against the whipping sleet, but we might need to hike the rest of the way.

“Can I help?” Aspen asks, surprising me.

“I’m going to try backing down and coming at it from a different angle.” I shift into Reverse and then Drive and let up on the clutch. The truck lurches forward a few feet, then slides sideways.

“Whoa!” Aspen grips the dashboard, eyes wide.

“Don’t worry. We won’t end up in a ditch.”

She gives me a skeptical look. “Forgive me if I don’t find that reassuring coming from a man who willingly lives at the top of a mountain in snowstorm country.”

“Keep it in neutral if I need to get out and push,” I say, trying again and praying the tires find something to cling to. On the third attempt, they finally catch on a patch of gravel, and we lurch up the last stretch of driveway. The tension in my shoulders eases as we pull within a few feet of the porch steps. I’ve been meaning to reinforce that area, and now, it’s at the top of my priority list.

Aspen leans forward, her expression softening as she takes in the sight of my cabin.

“Wow,” she breathes, genuine appreciation in her voice. “When I tell my friends I stayed at an honest-to-goodness log cabin, I’m sure this is exactly what they’ll picture.”

Something in my chest tightens at the casual mention of her “friends” and the implicit understanding that this—us, Wildwood, the garage—is all just a temporary detour before she returns to her real life.

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