Page 7 of Mountain Man's Surrender

I kill the engine.

“It’s not much,” I say gruffly, though I’m damn proud of this place I built with my own two hands.

“It’s beautiful,” she counters, and when our eyes meet, something electric passes between us. For a moment, her gaze drops to my mouth, and the air in the truck seems to evaporate. The world narrows to just us, our breath fogging the windows. I lean toward her, drawn by an invisible force I can’t resist. Her lips part slightly, and I catch the faint scent of coffee on her breath. My heart hammers against my ribs as her eyes flutter closed. I’m close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her skin.

My hand moves of its own accord, lifting to rest gently against her cheek. Her skin is impossibly soft beneath my calloused palm. She leans into my touch, a small sigh escaping her lips as she tilts her face up toward mine. Our lips are only a whisper apart when a sudden gust of wind rocks the truck, the violent shake breaking the spell between us. I pull back, reality crashing down like an icicle smashing onto the deck.

And then she’s scrambling to unbuckle her seatbelt with fumbling fingers. Fuck. I must have imagined the flash of desire in her eyes, the way she seemed to beg for my kiss. A beautiful curvy young thing like her wouldn’t be attracted to a scarred, broken man like me. Especially not when I’m her father’s best friend.

“Let’s get inside before we freeze,” I say roughly, swallowing my disappointment. “Storm’s only going to get worse.”

Aspen

Ihadn’tgivenathoughtto what Landry’s cabin might be like on the drive up because my mind was a whirling tornado of thoughts and he was only inches from me across the bench seat. But now, standing just inside the door, I realize his place is exactly what I might have pictured. It’s rustic, with exposed wooden beams and a massive stone fireplace that dominates one wall. The cabin’s not the messy bachelor pad of a gruff, hot-as-hell mountain man. There’s an unexpected tidiness to the space that tells me how much he values order, which makes me wonder again why he insisted I come here with him.

I shiver as Landry closes the door behind us, shutting out the howling wind. The temperature has plummeted since I arrived to Wildwood and even more so, in the short time it took to unload the suitcase he grabbed from Simon’s apartment before practically throwing me over his shoulder and carrying me out the door.

“I’ll get a fire going,” Landry says, extracting an envelope from his jacket pocket. He sets it on the table by the door before stomping the snow off his boots on the doormat then heading toward the hearth. I follow close behind, my teeth chattering despite my best efforts to control them. He had the heat cranked up in the truck, but it wasn’t strong enough to combat the bone-deep chill that’s settled in my bones since arriving in town this afternoon. But the weather’s not the only thing to blame. Apparently, my mother is, too.

A dark blur suddenly leaps down from somewhere above, landing with a soft thud just inches from my feet. I shriek, jumping forward and barreling into Landry’s solid frame.

“Jesus Christ!” My heart pounds wildly as I stare down at a scrawny black cat regarding me with obvious disdain. One bright amber eye watches me. Where the other should be is only a sealed seam, permanently closed.

Landry’s gigantic hands grip my hips, holding them steady. We’re close enough he could bend down and kiss me, but after what happened in the car, after the rejection, I won’t make that mistake again.

“You could have told me you have a cat,” I snap, pushing my hair away from my face.

Landry lets me go abruptly. He spins and snatches up a thick log of wood from the stack next to the fireplace. “I don’t.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“He’s not mine,” Landry says as if that’s all there is to it.

“But he lives here?” I don’t know why I’m bothering to ask. It’s obvious by the way the cat saunters around as if he owns the place.

“He showed up in October and refused to leave.” Landry’s lips press together, but he shoots a fond glance at the scrawny guy, and adds, “Stubborn as hell.”

“What’s his name?” I ask as the cat circles my legs once before moseying toward Landry as if he’s determined I’m not a threat.

“No name,” Landry says, arranging the kindling. “Like I said, he’s not mine.”

“You have to call him something.” I bend over to run a hand down the smooth midnight-black fur as the cat rubs his face against Landry’s hip. “Everything needs a name.”

Landry doesn’t answer. I glance up to find his eyes on my ass. Maybe, he’s not as unaffected by me as I thought. When he realizes I’ve noticed what he’s staring at, he fumbles to strike a match, needing three attempts to light the frayed edges of the lowest log.

“What about Captain Jack?” I suggest. “Or, maybe, Blinky.”

Rather than praise my creative suggestions, Landry rises smoothly to his feet, towering over me once again. “You hungry?”

My stomach growls in response before I can answer. I’ve had nothing since that coffee at the Sugar Plum Cafe, hours ago now.

“I am,” I admit, then add with a wry smile, “but what I really need is a stiff drink, if I’m being honest.”

Landry’s eyes narrow, but he dips his chin. “Honesty is the best policy.” Then, as if he regrets the comment, he adds, “I’ve got a bottle of homemade apple brandy in the kitchen.”

“You make apple brandy?” I’m trying and failing to picture this mountain of a man carefully distilling spirits.

He shakes his head. “Rhys, my neighbor to the west, gave it to me after I helped rebuild part of his roof last fall.”

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