Page 11 of Trapped with the Mountain Man

Something softens in his expression. "It's just observation. Anyone can learn." He hands me his water bottle. "Your turn."

I awkwardly position the bottle to catch the trickle. His hands cover mine, adjusting my grip. "Like this," he murmurs, breath warm against my ear. I'm suddenly more aware of his chest pressed against my back than the lesson.

"I think I've got it," I say, voice embarrassingly breathless.

Corbin steps back, but I feel his eyes on me as I finish. When I turn with my accomplishment, the pride in his slight nod feels more rewarding than any workplace accolade.

"What's next, Professor Mountain Man?" I ask, hoping the teasing eases the tension.

"Food," he replies simply.

The next hour passes in a blur of new knowledge as Corbin shows me edible plants, berry identification, and animal sign reading. I absorb it all eagerly, delighting in this new world.

"These," he says, crouching beside small mushrooms, "will make you violently ill. But these—" he points to a different variety, "—are edible and nutritious."

"How do you remember all this?" I ask, impressed. "They look almost the same."

"Practice. Necessity." He glances up. "Mistakes you only make once."

I catch his meaning immediately. "You've poisoned yourself?"

"Early on." He straightens. "I survived. Learned from it."

I imagine him younger, finding his way alone in this wilderness. "You're a good teacher. I'd have probably eaten the wrong mushroom on day one."

"Probably. But you're a good student," he says, sounding surprised. "You pay attention."

"I'm motivated," I reply. "Nothing like potential starvation to focus the mind."

We reach an outcropping that offers shelter and a view of the valley. The approaching storm is visible now, dark clouds rolling in from the west. We have an hour before it hits.

"We should head back soon," Corbin says but makes no move to leave. Neither do I, savoring these moments of peace and connection before we face the returning storm.

I settle beside him on a relatively dry patch of stone, acutely aware of his proximity, the heat of his body next to mine in the cool mountain air. The silence between us feels comfortable now, filled with unspoken understanding.

"Thank you," I say finally. "For teaching me. For..." I pause, not sure how to talk about what happened between us without shattering this fragile new connection.

He turns to face me, his dark eyes searching mine. "Tessa," he begins, his voice low and rough. "About last night." It’s like he’s reading my mind.

My heart speeds up. "Yes?"

"I don't regret it." His directness takes my breath away. "But this isn't—I'm not—" He struggles visibly with the words.

I place my hand over his, feeling the calluses on his palm and strong fingers. "I don't regret it either. And I'm not asking for promises or definitions."

Relief flickers across his face, followed by something darker, more intense. His hand turns beneath mine, fingers interlacing. "What are you asking for?"

The question hangs between us, loaded with possibilities. The truth rises to my lips before I can second-guess it. "More moments like this. More of you. For however long we have."

His other hand moves to my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone with unexpected tenderness. "That I can give."

This time, when we kiss, there's no hesitation. His lips are warm and certain against mine, his hand sliding into my hair to cradle my head.

I move closer, eliminating the last space between us, letting my hands explore the solid warmth of his chest. He makes a low sound in his throat that sends heat spiraling through me, his arms tightening around my waist.

I break our kiss, meeting his questioning gaze with newfound confidence. Slowly, deliberately, I slide from the rock to kneel before him, my intentions clear in my eyes.

His breath catches visibly. "Tessa, you don't have to—"

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