Page 9 of Mountain Man's Surrender

Landry looks surprised by the question.

“I…I don’t work there,” he says, correcting me with a shake of his head. “Never have. I helped out Simon because it was something to do and I got to hang out with my friend.”

“But you care about what happens to it.”

“Of course, I do.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Everyone in town does. That garage is the only full-service shop for thirty miles. Besides, the developer your broker represents wants to tear it down and put up a chain store that’ll gut the local businesses.”

My head snaps up. “How do you know who my broker represents?”

“Small town,” he shrugs. “And Derek has been trying to get commercial property on Main Street for years. Simon always refused to sell, but when ownership passed to you…” He trails off, holding my gaze.

I fall silent, considering this new information. Derek is the broker from Burlington who reached out only days after I received word of the inheritance. I didn’t ask who he represented, and he didn’t offer any details. It didn’t matter at the time, but now? The thought sits uncomfortably in my chest.

“I don’t want to own the garage,” Landry continues after a moment. “But if push comes to shove, I’d buy it. To preserve what Simon built.”

The cat jumps onto the couch between us, settling in the small space as if claiming it. The absurdity of the situation—sitting in a remote cabin during a blizzard, forced to face lies that shaped my entire life, with a grumpy one-eyed cat wedging itself between me and my father’s best friend, a man I find increasingly confounding and irresistibly attractive—suddenly hits me, and I laugh softly.

“What?” Landry asks, the firelight casting shadows across his scarred face.

“He really needs a name.” I reach out to stroke the cat’s fur. “You can’t just call him ‘cat’ forever.”

“Watch me,” Landry says, but there’s warmth in his eyes that wasn’t there before.

I shift to get more comfortable, accidentally brushing my knee against his. The contact sends a jolt of awareness through me, hot electricity racing up my thigh and pooling low in my belly. When I look up, Landry’s eyes have darkened, their steel blue now stormy with unmistakable desire. His gaze drops to my mouth, lingering there with such intensity my lips tingle in response.

The room suddenly feels too warm, and I’m relaxed despite the way the air between us is charged. Maybe, it’s the brandy, but I’m acutely aware of every place our bodies almost touch—my knee against his thigh, our shoulders inches apart, the way his hand rests dangerously close to mine on the couch cushion. His fingers twitch slightly, as if fighting the urge to reach for me.

“Landry,” I murmur, his name rolling off my lips. I lean forward, drawn to him like a magnet, as if he’s the stability I seek, what I need. To my surprise, he moves toward me, too, one large hand coming up to cup my face again. His thumb traces my cheekbone with unexpected tenderness, the calloused pad rough against my skin, just like in the truck.

But now, there’s no gust of wind to stop us.

“We shouldn’t,” Landry whispers, even as he tilts my chin upward.

“Why not?” I counter, arching closer as I ignore the hundred reasons I could name. I’d rather touch this man my body craves.

A low growl emerges from his chest as he seems to debate his next move. But I’m not that torn. We’re two consenting adults. His breath is warm and minty against my lips. His eyes, half-lidded and intense, hold mine for one heartbeat, then two. The tension coils tighter between us like a rubber band stretched toits breaking point. Another inch and I’ll discover if his mouth is as firm as it looks, if his beard is as soft as I’ve imagined. My fingers curl into the front of his flannel shirt, pulling him closer because I want him. More than I’ve ever wanted a man before him.

“Please,” I add, somehow sensing he won’t deny me.

Landry

Thesparkinhereyes, the vulnerability beneath those thick lashes and in her request, is my undoing. I should resist, walk away, keep my distance. This is Simon’s daughter. My best friend’s little girl. The thought rings like a warning bell, but the pull is too strong. Aspen’s too close, too tempting, too everything I shouldn’t want but do.

“I need you,” she adds softly, her voice barely audible.

Her honesty catches me off guard. The plea and the ache driving it shifts something in my chest. It’s not me she needs at the moment. It’s simply connection she wants, but when her fingers grip my shirt, twisting the fabric, the gentle tug shatters the last of my restraint.

Outside, the storm howls against the cabin walls, rattling the windows. Snow piles against the glass, creating a cocoon of isolation around us. The fireplace crackles and pops, casting long shadows across the room and bathing her skin in a warm amber glow. We’re alone, completely cut off from the world.

And this? Myself? I can give her that.

I close the distance between us, capturing her mouth with mine. She tastes of apple brandy and warmth, her lips soft and yielding. A small sigh escapes her, a sound of surrender that sends a surge of heat straight to my groin.

“Aspen,” I murmur against her lips, my hands sliding into her hair, tilting her head back to deepen the kiss. Her response is immediate, her body arching into mine, her tongue meeting mine in a dance that’s all heat and hunger.

The cabin creaks, the old timber frame adjusting and settling. I trail one hand down her neck, along her collarbone, her pulse quickening beneath my touch. She shivers as my fingers brush the swell of her breast, her nipple pebbling through the fabric of her sweater. I can’t resist, can’t stop the need to touch her, to feel her, even as my conscience screams at me to stop.

Simon would kill me. The thought surfaces, but then another immediately follows. Would he? My best friend always encouraged me to pursue happiness, to appreciate even the smallest hint of pleasure. But with his daughter? That’s another story.

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