Page 13 of Wrong Number, Right Mountain Man
Two minutes later, the bell above the door chimes. She walks in wearing a yellow sundress that hugs her curves, hair catching sunlight from the windows. My mouth goes dry. The photos didn't capture how she moves, the way her hips sway, how her smile transforms her entire face. But what in the hell is shewearing in this weather. It's not summer yet. I don't care how beautiful she looks in it. She's going to freeze.
Our eyes meet across the diner. Her smile hits me like a freight train.
I stand as she approaches, blood rushing south at the sight of her up close. She's more beautiful than any picture could show, with her golden skin always making me think of the summer sun, and lips that look soft enough to bite.
She throws her arms around my neck without hesitation. Her body presses against mine, soft curves fitting against my chest. The scent of her is vanilla and warm skin, and it makes my head spin.
"You're real," she breathes against my neck, her lips brushing my skin.
"Real enough," I manage, my voice coming out rougher than intended. My hands settle on her waist, thumbs tracing the curve of her ribcage through thin cotton.
She pulls back to study my face, standing close enough I can see gold flecks in her brown eyes. "The beard suits you. Makes you look dangerous."
"Do I?" The question comes out lower, more intimate than I meant.
Her pupils dilate. "Maybe a little."
The moment stretches between us, charged with weeks of building tension. I want to back her against the nearest wall and find out if she tastes as sweet as she sounds.
She slides into the booth across from me, and I miss the warmth of her body. The server appears, eyebrows raised at seeing me with a woman. In five years, I've brought no one here.
"Just coffee," Sunny tells her, not taking her eyes off me. "And whatever smells amazing."
"Apple cinnamon pie. Made fresh this morning."
When we're alone, Sunny leans forward, giving me a view down her dress that makes my pulse spike. "This is surreal, right? Meeting after everything?"
"Good surreal," I say, forcing my eyes back to her face. Though the view of her cleavage is burned into my brain now, just like the photo that started it all.
She catches me looking, and her cheeks flush pink. Instead of pulling back, she leans closer. "I was so nervous getting ready. Changed clothes three times."
"You chose well." My eyes drop to where the sundress shows off her shoulders, the hollow of her throat I want to press my lips against.
"Flatterer." But she's smiling, pleased by the attention.
"But won't you get cold?"
Sunny smirks. "Beauty is pain, don't you know that." She winks and laughs leaving it at that.
The conversation flows like our texts, but everything feels heightened in person. When she laughs at my story about the bear, her hand lands on my forearm. Her touch burns through my shirt sleeve.
She pushes the pie plate toward me. "Share with me?"
Watching her lick cinnamon from her fork shouldn't be erotic, but my jeans get uncomfortably tight. She notices my stare and runs her tongue along the tines.
"Good?" I ask, my voice strained.
"Mmm." The sound goes straight to my cock. "Want a taste?"
She holds out her fork, loaded with pie. Instead of taking it, I lean forward and let her feed me, my lips closing around the metal. Her breath catches as I pull back slowly.
"Beck," she whispers, and the way she says my name makes me want to hear it in entirely different circumstances.
"So," she says, trying to regain composure, "what made you move up here? The whole mountain hermit thing."
The question I've been dodging, though right now I'm too distracted by the way her tongue darts out to catch a crumb on her bottom lip.
"Needed space after my divorce," I say finally. "Fifteen years of marriage that died a slow death."
