Page 8 of Craving the Mountain Man

I look up at her, exasperated by her stubborn optimism. "This isn't a game, Skylar. You could have seriously injured yourself pushing so hard."

Her lips curl at my use of her first name, and I have a feeling that me using it makes her happy. I clear my throat, suddenly uncomfortable with our proximity.

"I'll wrap it for you," I mutter, reaching for the first aid kit. "But tomorrow, you ride with the supply team. No arguments."

As I gently wrap Skylar's ankle, I'm acutely aware of her gaze on me. The air between us feels charged, heavy with unspoken words.

"Thank you," she says softly as I finish securing the bandage. "Not just for this, but for... everything today. For not making me turn back."

I look up, meeting her eyes. The sincerity in her expression catches me off guard. "You earned it," I say gruffly. "You showed real grit out there."

A small smile plays at the corners of her mouth. "High praise from the mountain man himself. I'm honored."

I roll my eyes, but can't quite suppress my own smile. "Don't let it go to your head, Hayes. We've still got a long way to go."

As I stand to leave, Skylar catches my wrist. The touch sends an unexpected jolt through me. "Grayson," she says, her voice low. "I meant what I said earlier. I trust you. More than I probably should, given how little I really know about you."

I swallow hard, unsure how to respond to the vulnerability in her words. Part of me wants to pull away, to retreat behind the walls I've so carefully constructed. But another part—a part I thought I'd buried long ago—yearns to let her in.

"You shouldn't," I say finally, my voice rougher than I intend. "Trust me, I mean. I'm not... I'm not good for anyone, Skylar."

Her grip on my wrist tightens slightly. "I think that's for me to decide, don't you?"

Before I can respond, a call from across the camp breaks the moment. "Hey boss! Where do you want the bear canisters?"

I step back, Skylar's hand falling away from my wrist. The loss of contact leaves me feeling strangely bereft. "Get some rest," I tell her, my voice once again gruff and businesslike. "I'll have someone bring you dinner."

As I walk away to deal with the rest of the camp setup, I can feel Skylar's eyes on my back. I resist the urge to look back at her, knowing that if I do, I might not be able to walk away again.

Later that night, as the camp settles into sleep, I find myself unable to rest. My mind keeps replaying moments from the day—Skylar's determined face as she pushed through the pain, her laughter echoing across the mountainside, the feel of her hand on my wrist.

I step out of my tent, needing some air to clear my head. The night is clear and cold, the stars blazing overhead in a way you never see in the city. It's the kind of night that usuallybrings me peace, reminding me why I've dedicated my life to this mountain.

But tonight, even the vast expanse of the wilderness can't quiet the turmoil in my mind.

A soft sound catches my attention, and I turn to see Skylar emerging from her tent. She's wrapped in a thick blanket, her hair tousled from sleep.

"Can't rest either?" I ask quietly as she approaches.

She shakes her head, coming to stand beside me. "Too many thoughts spinning around up here," she says, tapping her temple. "Plus, I didn't want to miss this view. It's incredible."

We stand in companionable silence for a while, gazing up at the star-strewn sky. I'm acutely aware of her presence beside me, of the slight shiver that runs through her despite the blanket.

Without thinking, I wrap an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer to share my warmth. She stiffens for a moment in surprise, then relaxes against me with a contented sigh.

"Thank you," she murmurs. "For everything today. I know I'm not exactly the ideal expedition member."

I snort softly. "You're tougher than you look, Hayes. Most people would have given up after that fall."

She tilts her head to look up at me, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Was that almost a compliment, Mr. Wells? Careful, or I might start to think you actually like having me around."

Her teasing tone belies the vulnerability in her eyes, and I find myself at a crossroads. I could brush off her comment with a gruff remark, maintain the professional distance I've worked so hard to cultivate. Or I could be honest—with her, and with myself.

"Maybe I do," I say quietly, surprising us both. "Like having you around, I mean."

Skylar's eyes widen, and for once, she seems at a loss for words. The silence stretches between us, charged with unspoken possibilities.

Finally, she speaks, her voice barely above a whisper. "Grayson, I?—"

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