Page 4 of Cursed Mountain Man

“Hi,” I said.

He was looking at me again. Those eyes seemed to see right through to my soul. That was a cheesy thought, but it was exactly the way I felt.

“Come on in,” he said without returning my greeting.

He stepped back and held the door open, giving me far more room than I actually needed. It was like he was trying to avoid getting too close to me. Maybe this attraction was just on my side of things. Or maybe he was attracted to me and was trying to keep a professional distance.

I might have spent more time thinking about that, but the interior of his cabin pulled my attention away. The place was definitely creepy. But it might be the power of suggestion because I couldn’t put my finger on what was creepy about it.

“I got everything you mentioned in your text,” he said. “Seltzer water, sausage and mushroom pizza for you, and a supreme pizza for me.”

We each had our own full pizza. I was impressed. He’d texted me from the grocery store. His language had been abrupt, almost terse, but I got the feeling that was just how he communicated in writing.

“You didn’t have to feed me,” I said. “But thank you.”

“If you can do something that will let me stay in this house rather than losing a bunch of money trying to move, it’s the least I could do. Here, I’ll take that.”

I realized he was offering to take my tote bag and my purse. I handed them over, then turned to face the octagon-shaped table. Two big pizza boxes sat in the center. Place settings were on either side. No placemats—everything was set directly on his wood table.

He headed to the kitchen to grab drinks as I took a seat. I wasn’t sure where he normally sat, but I assumed he’d want his back to the wall. Most of the guys around here were former military, and that seemed to be a thing.

“I mostly use this as a poker table,” he said. “That’s why it’s a weird shape. The guys come over sometimes. We take turns at each other’s houses once a week. They give me shit for being so competitive.”

He walked toward the table. He set my glass of seltzer water in front of me and moved around to his seat, bottle of beer in his other hand.

I picked up my napkin and spread it on my lap, feeling self-conscious. This was not a date. It was a meeting at a client’s house to discuss an issue he was having. I should not be nervous. I did stuff like this all the time.

“So, you’re competitive?” I asked.

“I think it came from my time as a soldier. I don’t know why, but I came out trying to prove myself.”

He opened the top pizza box and tilted it toward me, inviting me to take a slice. One went onto my plate. That was another way I knew I was attracted to him. I wanted to take two or three slices, but I also felt the need to be dainty and ladylike in front of him.

“I’m competitive, but only with work,” I said, taking a sip from my seltzer water as I watched him pull two generously sized slices out of the box and put them on his plate. Then he closed the box and set it on top of mine. “I’m not much into games. We played a lot of board games growing up, but I’ve never played poker.”

He uncapped his beer and stared at me with a surprised expression. “I can teach you.”

I shook my head. “I know how that will go. You’ll somehow manage to empty my wallet while teaching me how to play.”

“We don’t have to play for money.”

We had to play for something, didn’t we? An image flashed through my head. It was a visual of the two of us playing strip poker. It sent heat through my body. I squirmed in my seat and realized I was wet between my legs.

It had happened so quickly, it surprised me. Was that even possible? To get that turned on that fast? Maybe with a guy like the one seated across from me, it was.

“We can play with candies or coins,” he said. “But my poker set has chips, so we don’t have to play for anything specific.”

Had it occurred to him at all? The thought of strip poker? I wasn’t an unattractive woman, and men tended to live with their minds in the gutter—at least that’s what I’d always been told. But it usually made me uncomfortable, thinking of a man fantasizing about doing things like that with me. I was a hopeless romantic. I wanted a man to imagine marrying me and having kids with me—not ripping off my clothes and doing me on this table.

But that wasn’t the case with Josiah. In fact, the thought of him doing me on this table was stuck in my head.

“Don’t worry. I won’t make you play anything,” Josiah said. “Just make this place normal and I’ll be happy.”

“When did the bad energy start?” I asked, lifting my slice of pizza and taking a dainty bite.

“It was a good two weeks after I moved in,” he said. “I toured the place countless times—even moved my stuff in—and I didn’t notice anything weird. But one day I came home from work and it just seemed darker in here.”

He looked around as he once again took a sip of his beer. That morning, his words had seemed odd. I’d been sure he was just imagining things. But now I got it. There was something not so good about this place.

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