Page 8 of The Mountains Edge

"People talk," I echo, watching him work. "But not about you. Why is that?"

His shoulders bunch under his thermal shirt. He turns away, but not before I catch him scowl.

"Look at me."

"We're here to work."

"No, we're here because you've been sneaking in at night to check on these pieces for weeks." I move closer, breathing in his scent. "Because you care about them. Just like you care about those dogs you pretend not to want."

He goes still as I reach his side. Heat radiates off his body, making it hard to think straight.

“The Trading Post's always carried Steel pieces." he says finally. "Been that way since my grandfather's time.”

My heart skips. "Your family built them?" I touch the table's surface reverently.

"Started with my grandfather. Taught my father, who taught me."

"And now?"

"Now I work alone."

His voice softened, watching my fingers trace the patterns in the wood. The carvings tell stories of bears and wolves running through forests, mountains rising from clouds. Wild things lurking in the grain.

"You tell stories in the wood," I murmur as I step even closer, so his hip grazes against me.

His breath catches as I step closer. "Yes.”

"I see them. The wild things. The scars. The beauty." I look up at him, pulse racing. "The darkness too."

His hand comes up, rough fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face. Eve

"You see too much." His voice is rough.

I lean into his touch as he cups my cheek. My eyes drift half-closed at the sensation of those callused fingers on my skin. "Or maybe just enough."

"Why did you really buy this place?" he asks.

"I needed a change." I turn my face into his palm, breathing him in. "I had a fancy marketing job in Seattle. Corner office, expense account, the works. But it felt?"

"Empty?"

"Yeah." I meet his eyes, drowning in stormy grey. "Then I took a wrong turn on a road trip. Ended up here. Saw this place."

"And?"

"And it felt like home." I gesture at the moonlit room. "Including these pieces, the history, the stories. Even before I knew they were yours."

I step closer, eliminating the last space between us. Now we were pressed against each other and I could feel his growing need. "Why do you really come here at night?"

"To check the humidity." His free hand finds my hip, sending electricity through me. "Wood's sensitive to changes."

I rise on tiptoes, bringing my mouth inches from his. "Try again."

His thumb brushes my bottom lip, making me shiver. God, I want those hands everywhere.

"Because it's quiet," he admits. "Peaceful. No one is staring."

"I'm staring." I slide my hands up his chest, feeling the muscles jump under my touch.

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