Page 5 of S'more Mountain Man

A smile tugged at her mouth, revealing a dimple in her right cheek that I absolutely did not notice.

Once the bathroom door closed behind her, I took a steadying breath. It had been—what, eight months?—since I'd had anyone in my space. The sudden presence of a woman—this woman, with her rambling and attitude and rain-soaked curves—was jarring.

I climbed the ladder to the sleeping loft and dug through my meager wardrobe. Most of my clothes were practical, built for durability rather than style. I settled on a flannel shirt that had shrunk slightly in a wash and a pair of drawstring shorts that might—or might not in a perfect universe—stay on her smaller frame.

When I descended, the bathroom door was still closed. The sound of running water suggested she'd figured out the shower on her own.

Leaving the clothes outside the door, I changed quickly into dry jeans, leaving my chest bare. Even a t-shirt felt like too much in the oppressive heat. The storm had dropped the temperature outside, but inside, the cabin trapped warmth like an oven. I opened another window, hoping for some cross-breeze, but the air remained thick and still.

A few minutes later, I heard the water shut off and Skye emerged from the short hallway wrapped in my flannel shirt, which hung to mid-thigh on her. Her chestnut hair was twisted up in one of my towels, and her face, scrubbed clean of mud, revealed a scattering of freckles across her nose.

"I, uh, left my clothes hanging in there. Hope that's okay. They were pretty gross."

I nodded, focusing on the window rather than the expanse of bare leg visible below my shirt. The shorts I'd offered were clutched in her hand.

"These are great, but they, um, don't stay up. At all. But the shirt covers everything important, so..."

Jesus Christ.

"Hungry?" I asked, mostly to change the subject.

"Starving, actually."

I moved to the small kitchen area, conscious of her eyes on my back. The last thing I wanted to do was turn on the stove in this heat, but she needed to eat. I opened the ancient cooler I kept stocked with ice from town and pulled out some deer jerky, a block of cheese, and apples.

"It's too hot for cooking," I explained, setting the makeshift meal on the small table. "But this will keep you going."

"That looks perfect, actually." She sat across from me, legs tucked under her, the flannel riding dangerously high on her thighs. I kept my eyes firmly on my plate.

While she ate, I noticed her gaze continuously drifting to the forge setup in the corner.

"You make things?" she finally asked.

"Knives, mostly. Some tools." I tore off a piece of jerky. "Trade them in town."

"That's incredible." She sounded genuinely impressed. "Like, actually incredible. I can barely change a light bulb."

"Different skill sets."

"Yeah, well, your skill set seems a lot more useful when the apocalypse hits." She bit into an apple, a drop of juice escaping down her chin. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, the gesture unconsciously sensual. "So what happens when the zombies come? You just hole up here with your knives and jerky?"

"Something like that."

"Can I see one? A knife you made, I mean."

I hesitated, then rose and went to the workbench. My latest project was a hunting knife with a curly maple handle—simple, functional, but with clean lines I was satisfied with. I handed it to her, handle first.

She took it reverently, turning it over in her hands. "This is beautiful. Like, art beautiful, not just useful beautiful."

Something warmed in my chest at her genuine appreciation.

"I call itBrannick Forge," I said, surprising myself by offering the information. "My knives, I mean."

"Fancy." She grinned, handing it back. "So you're not just a mountain hermit—you're a blacksmith mountain hermit. That's like, extra."

The corner of my mouth twitched. "If you say so."

We finished eating in surprisingly comfortable silence, the storm providing all the background noise needed. She sat back and stretched her arms above her head. I was glad to see her relaxing.

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