Page 6 of The Mountain Man's Accidental Bride
Payton doesn’t notice. She’s too caught up in returning my frustration with her annoyance. She huffs and crosses her arms over her chest and juts her chin like she’s ready to pick a fight, even now.
Instead of spitting something out that could possibly sting, she surprises me by dropping her shoulders. After an unnecessary sigh, she collapses on the couch and draws her knees to her chest.
“Thank you for this. It’s pretty comfortable.” Muttering her appreciation, she’s back to staring in any direction but my own as she gets comfortable.
Grunting, I look at the spot next to her and debate returning to my seat at her side. Might be a little too close.
I can’t just keep standing around here doing nothing. I need to busy my hands before I’m tempted to do something I shouldn’t.
“Have you eaten?” Rubbing the back of my neck, I don’t miss the way her eyes flick over my way at the mention of food.
She curls tighter into herself, knees pressed to her chest, but the hem of my shirt rides up anyway, exposing a sliver of thigh. Should’ve given her shorts. Sweatpants. A damn blanket—anything. But now it’s too late, and if I offer to give her something to cover up a peek of pink, she’ll know I’ve noticed. That I’ve looked too long.
This woman is meant to be Walt’s bride. The reminder hits like a bucket of ice water. I can’t let any wandering thoughts drift around. Those are the most dangerous kind.
“I’ll pay you back, I swear.” Her voice is a ragged groan as she shakes her head. “I was too nervous to eat earlier. Now I’m freaking starving.”
Good. A distraction. I wave off the mention of money—like I’d take a dime from her after looking as much as I have—and turn toward the kitchen before my gaze can wander again. Food is easy. Food is safe.
I need somewhere I can breathe without inhaling pumpkin spice. That’s far too dangerous.
There’s a bowl of beef stew I’d cooked the night before that takes only a few minutes to reheat. While I’m waiting, the lights above my head flicker in time with a hellish howl of wind outside.
If the power goes out, I’m going to have to deal with the generator. What a headache.
If I were by myself, I’d just sleep through the rough parts and deal with the aftermath in the morning. With my current situation, I’m not sure that option is even on the table.
With someone sharing my space, an oddity that is more than unusual, I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep a wink tonight.
As the microwave beeps, pulling me out of the thought, I shake my head as if it’ll fly right out. As if.
Fetching a spoon, I return with the bowl of stew on a platter to catch her watching the trees sway and the rain splatter against the glass. Clearing my throat, she jerks.
Payton is the jumpy type. In the back of my mind, I can’t help but think it’s cute.
Thinking little things like that are what’s going to get me in trouble.
Accepting my offering, she sits more comfortably, resting the platter on her thighs. Poking at a chunk of beef, I watch her swallow thickly.
She cradles the bowl like it’s something sacred, steam curling against her face as she inhales. For a second, I wonder how often she eats like this—real food, cooked with heart.
Or if she’s one of those women who lives on coffee and convenience, skipping meals until her body screams for anything warm.
Earlier, I jumped straight to judgment and easily offended her. This time, maybe I shouldn’t assume.
The way she plunges the first bite in, moaning around the spoon, is enough to paint a picture. She likes my cooking, and that’s what matters the most right in this moment.
Letting out a little sigh of relief, she realizes I’m empty-handed, doing nothing but watching her enjoy her meal. Instead of calling me out, she raises a brow.
“None for you?” Stirring her soup, her mouth pinches shut when I grunt. Catching herself before she’s consuming another bite, she squints. “I might be a little late to ask this, but you didn’t put anything in this, did you?”
And now she thinks I’d use her current state against her? While I can agree that I’m an asshole, I’m not a monster or a creep.
“Just hard work, if you count that as an ingredient.” Snorting, I tear my eyes away when her brows lift up in surprise.
“To think a grouch like you can laugh. What’s next, pigs growing wings?” Making a terrible comparison, she clicks her tongue when I don’t reply. “At least come sit down. I shouldn’t be the only one comfortable. Especially in a home that isn’t mine.”
Something tells me that if I don’t just sit, she’s not going to let this go. So, against my better judgment, I take a seat on the other end of the couch, purposely trying to put as much space between us as I can.
