Page 13 of Hunted By the Mountain Man

“Again, from your childhood?” Her voice is curious, with no detection of judgment.

Nevertheless, I still feel uncomfortable with this level of honesty. In my experience, nobody’s ever this plain-spoken. I nod. “Now that I’ve drudged up the past and made myself sound like a total pussy, welcome to my humble abode.”

Brynn smiles at me, her face open and reassuring. “Telling the truth takes way more courage than lying.”

I cock my head to the side. “You make a good point.”

“I’ve never done this with anyone before,” Brynn says, eyeing me quizzically. “But what if we swear here and now to never lie to each other? No matter what.”

“From this moment forward?” I clarify, my face a storm of emotion.

She holds out her hand, arching her lovely eyebrows. “Deal?”

“Deal,” I say gruffly, meaning it with every part of my heart, soul, and mind. As for the past, it needs to stay buried along with the NDA.

Climbing out of the truck and rounding it to open her door and offer her my hand, sparks flicker between our flesh. My breath comes in short pants, and my body fills with a deliciously warm feeling as I stare into her welcoming eyes, noticing her beet-red cheeks.

No expectations, Beau. This is just you keeping Brynn safe. End of story.

“I’ll get you set up in my cabin with a hot shower and fresh sheets and towels in the guest bedroom. And then I’ll head out here and unhook your 4Runner.”

“So, you’re not planning on holding me against my will?” she asks, sarcasm dripping from her words.

“It’s tempting as fuck,” I admit. “But I want you to want to stay, Brynn.”

ChapterSeven

BRYNN

“Well, after nearly a week of seeing you everywhere, I had to come up with a nickname for you. I can’t say it was especially creative, but it did the trick,” I explain to Beau as we sit on the floor in front of his fireplace, leaning against thick piles of cushions from the couch.

My towel-dried hair is still damp from the shower. The delicious smell of cypress and sandalwood shampoo, conditioner, and body wash from the guest bedroom envelope me. I wear one of his oversized khaki shirts with “USMC” and the Marines logo printed in black ink in the front right corner, and his eyes devour me like I’m a fully frosted cake begging for the first bite.

He wears the matching government-issue jogging pants that make everything about his thick, muscular lower half criminally tempting. His shower-moist hair, beard, and chest fur beckon me to touch him with the same delicious manly, foresty smell. It takes every ounce of self-control not to reach out and palm his chiseled pectorals.

The flames flicker, transfixing me as I take another sip of the wine he’s offered me, feeling strangely at home and at peace in this stranger’s cabin. My eyes flicker around the room, taking in the vaulted ceilings and impressive floor-to-ceiling windows that I can only guess afford jaw-dropping views of nature during the daytime.

The furnishings are minimal and masculine with an emphasis on Native American patterns, cozy oversized pillows in matching accent colors, and fake fur blankets lined with forest green satin that beg me to cuddle beneath them. Only I’m far too hot from the roaring blaze and the sight of my mountain man stalker to cover up.

“I’m still waiting for it,” he says gruffly, clenching his jaw like I’m going to say something he doesn’t like.

My cheeks burn. “My mountain man stalker.”

The corners of his lips turn up, and his somber face softens almost imperceptibly. “You want to know my favorite part of that nickname?”

I stare down at my hands. “The man part?”

He shakes his head.

“The mountain part?”

“Nope.”

“The stalker part?”

“The possessive pronoun…”

My voice squeaks. “Why?”

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