Page 2 of Mountain Wood

“Hi,” she says, and I stare at her mouth.

Her beautiful, pouty, fuckable mouth.

Wow, am I this desperate that a mere city mouse can roll in here and temporarily stupefy me?

I need to focus. Be firm and to the point. Get her out of here as quickly as possible.

“Morning, Sweetheart. Look, if you’re here withanother offer, it’s best you turn around right now and take yourself back to the city. My answer is still no, and it’s going to stay that way.”

Oscar barks in the distance.

Some watch dog she is.

“First off, my name’s not Sweetheart. It’s Grace.” The goddess unfolds from the car that I bet just came off the showroom floor. “And I’m not offering you a damn thing.”

Her outfit looks like she pulled the tags off this morning. I’ve seen her type come through here before. The guests who’ve never touched grass a day in their life will stay up here for a weekend in the mountains for fresh air and photo ops in the fall with their pumpkin spice aesthetic, or their summer watermelon vibes, or their look-how-cozy-we-are-in-our-matching-parkas for early winter with identical boots and hats.

But it’s not her clothing that’s got me tongue-tied, or the pricy wheels she’s rolled up here in. It’s that bratty little attitude of hers, her snappy mouth, and the way she’s got her hands on a set of full hips, as if expecting me to apologize or something.

Then it dawns on me.

Holy shit, the guest checking in later today is booked as G Finch.

Grace. Finch.

Fuck me running.

“You’re my guest,” I say, hoping she’ll deny it. When she doesn’t, shame hits me and a gust of wind blows, reminding me that I’m shirtless and sweaty and as unprofessional as a pig on Wall Street.

Time to regain a little dignity. “I’m Dean.”

She looks down at my offered hand and it takes her several seconds before she shakes it. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

Grace’s hand is soft and warm, and I’m painfully aware of how filthy and rough mine are. We stare awkwardly at each other for a few heartbeats before she pulls her hand away.

“So…” She lifts her sunglasses up and rests them on her head. “Which cabin is mine?”

“Any one you want,” my dumbass responds. I think I’m having a stroke. My heart’s banging way too hard in my chest and when her gaze drags down my body, I swear she stalls at my crotch. Clearing my throat, I take a step back and finally get my ass into gear. “Just let me grab a shirt and I’ll help you carry your bags in.”

“It’s okay. I’ve got it.”

“No, really, I can—”

“I said I’ve got it.”

We’ve started off on the wrong foot and it’s getting worse.

“Cabin five has a bigger kitchen, but cabin six has the bigger bedroom.” The rest are in various stages of renovations and unusable.

“Which one has a fireplace?”

“They all do.”

“I’ll take cabin six.”

“No problem.”

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