Page 112 of Stuck with my Mountain Daddies

“You okay?” I asked, grabbing the roll of paper towels off the sill and tossing them her way.

“I’m fine,” she muttered, arms still frozen as if she was waiting for more to fall.

I looked down at her soaked sock. Steam curled up from it. She glanced down, frowning.

“My sock has become a latte.”

I barked out a laugh before I could stop it.

She shot me a look that tried to be annoyed but didn’t land. “Don’t laugh. That was almost graceful.”

“Sure,” I said, handing her the towels. “If the plan was to baptize the kitchen in espresso.”

That earned a little laugh, soft, breathy, almost a snort. She started patting at the mess, trying to look serious, but her mouth was already twitching at the corners.

“I haven’t even had coffee yet,” she grumbled, mopping the counter. “This is some real cruel and unusual shit.”

“You attacking the kitchen is what’s cruel.”

“Wasn’t the plan,” she said. “But apparently my elbows are a menace to society.”

I leaned back against the counter, arms folded, watching her.

Even dripping with coffee, half her hair falling loose, surrounded by puddles… she was still the most beautiful thing I’d ever laid eyes on.

“You’ve always had shit elbow coordination,” I said.

She glanced over her shoulder at me. “Always?”

I shrugged. “It’s in your file.”

“You keep a file on me?”

“Color coded.”

She laughed, really laughed this time, and before I could think better of it, I reached out and tucked a loose piece of hair behind her ear.

She froze under my hand.

Then her eyes lifted to mine, and just like that, the world shut up. No creaking floorboards. No wind. No noise in my head.

Just her.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she said, voice soft like it might break if she pushed too hard.

“I was already up.”

“Thinking?”

“Yeah.”

She didn’t press. Only nodded. She understood exactly what that meant without needing the details.

Then she crouched again to finish mopping up the coffee, moving like she was trying to shrink herself down, make less of a mess.

“Thanks for helping me clean up my disaster,” she murmured.

I stared at her, on her knees in one of my shirts, hair falling loose, socks still damp and clinging, and my pulse began to pound out of control.

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