Page 17 of Wrong Number, Right Mountain Man
My recipes. My clothes. My business plan. The reality hits me again—it's all gone. But somehow, being here makes it bearable.
When I return, Beck stands by the fire. He glances up, and my stomach does a little flip.
"Found some clothes that might work." He gestures to a folded stack. "They'll be big, but comfortable."
The clothes smell like him as I inhale forest and smoke with something underneath that's just Beck. The fabric holds his warmth, his scent surrounding me like an embrace. As I change, I imagine what it would feel like to have his hands instead of cotton against my skin. The sweatpants need to be rolled up four times, and the shirt hangs to mid-thigh.
Beck's eyes crinkle when I emerge. "You look like a kid playing dress-up."
"Excuse you, sir, this is high fashion." I strike a runway pose that pulls a low chuckle from him. "Mountain chic is very in this season."
The tour reveals Beck's handiwork. The kitchen cabinets he built himself, an office with a desk facing the mountains, a guest room with no bed.
He pauses at the last door. "My room."
The bedroom holds a massive bed with a headboard carved with pine trees, more bookshelves, and windows that must frame an incredible view by daylight. The bed dominates the space, and heat creeps up my neck as I fantasize about sharing it with him.
"You'll sleep here tonight," he says.
"No way. I'm not kicking you out of your bed."
"You're not kicking me out. I'm offering."
"Beck—"
"Sunny." The way he says my name, low and rough, makes my argument die in my throat. "The couch is comfortable."
Our eyes lock, and suddenly I'm thinking about activities that have nothing to do with sleeping. The air between us crackles with tension. Rex breaks the moment by squeezing between us, tail wagging against my leg.
"Hungry?" Beck asks, his voice still carrying that rough edge.
"We just ate."
Beck shrugs but decides we should eat anyway. He cooks with quiet confidence. Venison steaks, potatoes, greens. I perch on a stool, watching his hands work. Damn those hands. I've been fantasizing about them since he sent that coffee photo weeks ago.
"Where'd you learn to cook like this?" I ask as he flips the steaks with perfect timing.
"Trial and error. Lot of burned dinners that first year."
"I bet your ex was devastated to lose her personal chef."
His hands pause for just a beat too long. "She wasn't much for home cooking.” He serves up our food. "So what brought you to Evergreen Lakes?"
I know a diversion when I hear one, and I sigh as I sit at the dining table. "Well, I lived in Reno after graduation from college. Became an accountant and hated it. Realized I was doing it forall the wrong reasons. Everything was the safe option. Couldn't keep doing it. Especially after Josh dumped me, so I quit and moved here because Maya moved back here after college, it's her home town and I loved it every time I visited. And Honey is amazing and hired me knowing about my food truck goals even though I had no practical experience. I used to eat at food trucks all the time getting ideas, and trying recipes. It was the only sane thing I did to survive." I laugh, but not with mirth and Beck watches me closely.
“Tell me about the food truck," he says as we eat. "The real version. The business side of things."
I tell him about my menu ideas, which are comfort food with unexpected twists. The business model I've researched. The calculations showed how many meals I'd need to sell each day.
He asks questions proving he's listening. Asking about food costs, location strategies, and marketing ideas. No one has ever engaged with my dream like this, not even Maya.
"You're going to make it happen," he says when I finish. Not as a question, but as a simple fact.
"Thank you," I whisper.
"For what?"
"For not telling me I'm crazy. Let me stay here. For all of this."
