Page 20 of Wrong Number, Right Mountain Man
She sets down her fork. “We barely know each other.”
“Do we?” I hold her gaze. “I know how you take your coffee. What makes you laugh. How your voice sounds when you’re falling asleep on the phone. That’s more than I know about most people.”
“This is crazy,” she whispers, but there’s no conviction behind it.
“Probably. But I’m not taking it back.” I reach across the table, covering her hand with mine. “Stay, Sunny. At least until you have better options.” Or forever.
Her fingers twine with mine. “Why?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with everything unsaid. I could give her the simple answer of because she needs help, because I have the space, because it makes sense.
Instead, I give her the truth.
“Because these past few weeks have been the first time I’ve felt alive in years. Because waking up knowing you’re in my house makes me happier than I have any right to be.” My thumb traces circles on her palm. “Because I’m falling for you, and I’m not ready to let you go.”
Her eyes widen, lips parting in surprise. “Beck—”
“You don’t have to say anything,” I cut in, unsure. “I know the timing is terrible. You’re dealing with enough without me dumping this on you.”
“Stop.” She squeezes my hand. “I’ve been falling for you since you told me my boobs looked fine.”
A laugh escapes me, rusty and real. “Not my most poetic moment.”
“But honest.” Her eyes shine with something that makes my chest tight. “That’s what I love about you. You’re real in a way no one else in my life has ever been.”
Love. The word hangs between us, neither of us ready to claim it outright.
“So you’ll stay?” I ask, voice low.
“Yes.” She smiles, and it’s like watching the sun break through clouds. “But I’m paying rent.”
“Unnecessary.”
“Non-negotiable. I’m not a charity case.”
“Fine.” I raise her hand to my lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “But I get to set the rate.”
“Which will be?”
“One cookie a day. Homemade.”
She laughs, the sound filling the cabin and settling something inside me. “You drive a hard bargain, mountain man.”
After breakfast, she makes her calls while I take care of her car then pretend to read on the couch. The conversation with her landlord isn’t great. The water damage is extensive, and authorities have condemned the building for at least six months for repairs. Insurance is more promising, but will take weeks to process.
When she hangs up, her shoulders slump. “Well, that’s that. Officially homeless except for your generosity. Thank heavens, I have renters insurance.”
I move to her side, pulling her against my chest. She fits there, her head tucking under my chin. “Not homeless. You’re here.”
She looks up at me, vulnerability written across her face. “I don’t want to be a burden.”
“You’re not.” My hand cups her cheek. “Having you here... I like it more than I should.”
“Why more than you should?”
The question brings back memories I’ve tried to bury. Five years of solitude, of building walls brick by brick to keep the world and any pain at bay.
“I didn’t plan on letting anyone in again,” I admit. “After Diane left, I swore I was done with relationships.”
