Page 2 of Admiring the Mountain Man
The washcloth I use to excuse myself moves in slow circles across the counter, polishing an already spotless surface. A nervous habit. A dead giveaway.
Then I hear it, his name.
“Foster!”
That rough baritone rolls through the room like distant thunder, and just like that, my hands betray me. The washcloth twists too tightly, water seeping between my fingers, creating a mess that’s even worse than what I started with.
It’s been months since Hayes first walked into the Hollow Oak, but my body hasn’t learned indifference. If anything, it’s gotten worse.
The first time, fear and fascination battled within me. Now? Just heat.
His answering grumble—low, gravelly—sends a shiver down my spine. I don’t have to look up to know he’s scanning the room. I can feel it. Like the charged air before a storm.
And for a brief moment, it’s like he’s looking for me. Once those green eyes land on me, he’s filling the air with those familiar thumps. Heading in my direction, the scowl on his face softens.
No wonder I’m letting him get to my head. Every little thing he does makes me believe I’m special. He’ll growl at the world, but let hints of smiles slip past his lips whenever he thinks no one is looking.
When he reaches the bar, none of the bartenders think to step in his direction. They already know he’s all mine.
“Afternoon, Hayes.” My voice is the strongest part of me, my greeting unwavering. “What will it be today?”
Unlike half of the people who throw back whiskey at two in the afternoon, he’s got a long drive back home. He sticks with whatever drink I want to throw together without the burn of alcohol. Lately, he’s been itching for something sweet.
Shame I can’t throw myself at him over the counter. If I could, I would do so without hesitation.
Throat feeling tight from the ridiculous thought, I force my smile to be wider. “Same as usual?”
He nods once, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Please. I appreciate it.”
My favorite part of making his drink? The brief moment I get to spend sliding the drink toward him. He’s got a habit of taking it from me, allowing his fingertips to brush against my knuckles as he thanks me.
Once I have a colorful drink ready for him, I swear his touch lingers longer than usual.
Even if I have been working on my skills, the only times I ever try to sharpen them are when Hayes is involved.
Nervous to see what he’ll think, I bite my bottom lip and fold my fingers together as I wait for the truth.
He’s not the type of guy to save someone’s feelings.
For a heartbeat, his gaze drops. Lingers on my mouth like he’s tasting the citrus mixture already. When his eyes snap back up, the heat in them is a live wire.
He drinks. Slow. Purposeful. Throat working as he swallows, I watch as he physically relaxes.
After a long sip, the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Best one yet.”
“Really?” My jaw aches as my smile grows more natural, even more so when he nods.
I don’t tell him that I’ve been asking tips from the other bartenders in hopes of impressing him, but I’m excited to see that it has worked.
Now that I’ve given him his drink, I want to linger and strike up a conversation with him. Anything to keep him talking.
I could ask him about the mountain or this gloomy weather we’ve been having lately. Too much rain to count for, making everything muddy as can be.
“Are you keeping up with all this awful weather?” Tracing the grain in the wood with my finger, I try not to come off too interested.
I don’t want him to know that I’m always thinking about what he does while hidden away on the mountain.
After hearing other mountain men talk about preparing their cabins for storms and making sure their generators are in order, I want to listen to the same words come fromhislips.
