Page 13 of Snowed in with the Mountain Man

He nods, cupping the mug in his large hands. "Born here. Left for college, came back."

"What did you study?"

"Business. Forestry minor." He takes a sip. "Always knew I'd take over the store eventually."

"But not so soon?" I guess, thinking of the glimpses of pain I've seen when he mentioned his father.

Something flickers across his face—surprise that I've read him correctly, perhaps.

"Dad's heart gave out eight years ago. Wasn't supposed to be my turn yet."

I want to reach for his hand but sense he wouldn't welcome the gesture. "I'm sorry."

He shrugs. "It's life. Mountains teach you that. Nothing's guaranteed."

"Is that why you love it here? The mountains, I mean."

His expression shifts, softens. "Partly. They're honest. Dangerous but straightforward. No pretending."

"Unlike cities," I supply.

"Unlike people," he corrects.

We lapse into comfortable silence, sipping our drinks. I study him over the rim of my mug, trying to reconcile the gruff man from yesterday with the passionate lover of last night, with this thoughtful person before me now.

"The leak," I say suddenly, remembering. "We should fix that before the snow melts and makes it worse."

He nods, finishing his drink. "Was thinking the same."

We move upstairs, and Aiden examines the ceiling with practiced eyes. "Need to patch from the outside, but we can stop the inside leak for now."

From his pack, he produces the roofing sealant we bought yesterday. With methodical precision, he applies it to the worst areas, explaining each step.

"You've done this before," I observe.

"Few times." He smooths the sealant with a practiced motion. "Cabins up here always need maintenance."

"Like yours?"

A nod. "Built it myself. Five years ago."

This stops me. "You built a whole cabin? By yourself?"

That almost-smile appears. "Had help with the foundation. Rest was me."

"That's... incredibly impressive."

He shrugs off the compliment, but I catch the slight flush on his neck. He continues working, and I find myself mesmerized by his hands—strong, calloused, yet capable of such gentleness, as I discovered last night.

By mid-afternoon, we've repaired the immediate leaks, reinforced the plastic over the broken windows, and the cabin is actually starting to feel cozy rather than desperate.

Aiden stands on the porch, surveying our work with satisfaction. The storm has finally stopped, leaving behind a blindingly white landscape and absolute silence.

I join him, wrapping a blanket around my shoulders. "It's beautiful," I admit. "In a terrifying way."

"That's the mountains," he says simply.

Steam rises from his body, the exertion of our work meeting the frigid air. The sight stirs something in me—a primal attraction to his strength, his capability. Without overthinking it, I drop to my knees in front of him.

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