Page 32 of Mountain Mens' Curvy Obsession

But my legs do feel weak. I may have overexerted myself trekking down here through the snow. Clearly, my body is still recovering. The lovemaking alone knocked me out for eight hours straight, after all.

“Nonsense, it would be my pleasure. I’ve been isolated as well. I would love the company,” Breonna says, then looks at Nico. “If it’s okay with you guys.”

“Anya is a grown woman. She can decide for herself,” Nico replies, giving me a wary look. “Though she would be better off staying here with us.”

A mischievous, rebellious side rears its head. Noticing the guys’ discomfort puts me in a contrarian kind of mood. “You said it right; I’m a grown woman.”

Maybe I’m mad that there were other women before me. It’s an irrational thought to have, I know. But it is actually a welcome distraction from the usual secrecy surrounding my own identity. I guess I’m picking one trouble over another today.

“I have killer hot chocolate,” Breonna says to further entice me, “with the tiny marshmallows on top. You’re going to love it.”

“Thank you for the invitation, Breonna. I think I’ll join you,” I say and gently pull myself away from Booker’s tightening hold. He doesn’t want me to go, but they’re all careful about how they speak to Breonna when I’m around, which makes me want to get to know her a little better.

“Awesome,” she replies and gives Nico a warm smile. “I’ll keep your girl safe, and you can pop by my chalet and pick her up when you’re ready to head back to yours. Don’t worry.”

“That’s very kind of you, Breonna,” Nico mutters. But only his lips smile. His eyes don’t.

Let’s see where this leads.

It’s the most excitement I’ve had after over a week spent convalescing from a nightmare I can’t even remember.

7

Anya

Breonna’s place is a small but cozy one-story cabin, elegantly put together, with a basement and a set of stone steps connecting the porch to the narrow country road that leads to the main route into town.

“It’s beautiful,” I tell Breonna as I climb the steps behind her.

The porch is quaint and comfortable. An old-fashioned oil lamp hangs from the edge of the roof, and ceramic pots adorn the windowsills.

“I come up in the summer, too, sometimes, if I need a quiet place,” she says. “That’s my favorite spot, right there,” she points to the outdoor lounge corner. “Sinking into those cushions with a glass of cold lemonade is next-level happiness, I swear.”

“Oh, I believe you,” I say and chuckle softly as we go inside.

The cabin’s interior is a tasteful mixture of luxurious minimalism and rustic—I find it odd that I’m able to recognize design styles, but I can’t remember where I was before the car crash, or my family, for that matter, other than a few scattered memories.

“The photography is beautiful,” I say, admiring the black-and-white image of a nimble dancer sashaying across the stage.

“Oh, that’s me in the photos,” Breonna replies.

I stare at her for a second, imagining her in a tutu, light as a feather as she moves to the classical music. I can certainly see how men would find a woman like her so appealing. Nimble, spry, aesthetically pleasing to the male gaze. But the photos are from her past.

“I was a professional ballerina,” she adds, “for the New York Ballet Company.”

“Wow,” I whisper. “That must’ve been an experience.”

“Grueling, truth be told. I trained under a former Bolshoi prima ballerina named Anastasia Lazareva. She was an expert in torture, but she did bring out the best in me as a dancer.”

She leads me past the bedroom door and into the kitchen area.

“Have a seat; make yourself comfortable,” Breonna says as she pours us a couple of glasses of water from a pitcher she keeps on the island counter. “I’ll whip up the hot chocolate in a second.”

“Thank you. Do you miss it?” I ask, taking a seat.

“What, dancing?”

The water feels nice rolling down my throat. It soothes my headache, too. Perhaps I was just dehydrated. A snippet of a New York winter crosses my field of vision. I see myself giggling as the snow falls around me.

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