Page 14 of The Mountain Man's Runaway Bride

Like gravity just got heavier behind me.

I glance over my shoulder—and there he is.

Knox stands in the doorway, shirtless, jeans slung low on his hips, hair damp like he rinsed off outside. His eyes track me from the top of my messy bun to the spatula in my hand.

I feel the heat of his gaze. And for once, it’s not embarrassment that flares to life in me—but something warmer. More dangerous.

“You’re up early,” he says, voice still thick with sleep or surprise—or maybe something else entirely.

I shrug one shoulder. “I couldn’t sleep.”

His brows lift slightly. “So you decided to invade my kitchen?”

“I invaded very politely,” I say. “I found eggs and bread. I’m feeding you. You’re welcome.”

A small huff of amusement leaves him. “Wasn’t expecting that when I walked in.”

“What were you expecting?”

He walks in slowly, his gaze still on me. “Honestly? A note taped to the door saying you’d made a run for it.”

I flip the next piece of French toast onto a plate. “Not a bad idea, actually. But I figured if I did leave, you might track me down and lecture me about bears again.”

His mouth twitches. “Fair.”

He moves to the table as I start plating up two servings. Before I hand his over, I glance at him sideways. “Want a bite?”

His gaze drops to my mouth before flicking back up. “Of the toast?”

I lift a brow, pretending not to feel the fire in my cheeks. “Obviously.”

He steps closer. I hold up the fork, a golden bite balanced on the tines. He leans in, lips brushing against the edge of the metal, eyes locked on mine. He chews slowly. Deliberately.

“Damn,” he says, voice lower now. “That’s good.”

My throat tightens.

I pull the plate back to maintain some illusion of control and set it at the table. He starts to sit down—but then pauses.

His head tilts.

“You moved things,” he says.

I freeze. “A little.”

His eyes flick around the room—mug rack rotated, paper towels angled just slightly to the left, chair pulled back a few more inches than it had been last night. All subtle. All intentional.

His brow furrows. “Why?”

I chew my lip. “I noticed… you seem to favor your right side. I thought maybe it would be easier to see things if they were angled more toward your left.”

There’s a pause. A long one.

I brace myself.

Finally, he says, quietly, “You noticed.”

“You don’t have to talk about it,” I rush to say. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

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