Page 19 of Wrong Number, Right Mountain Man
Making my body ache for more than sleep.
Chapter 8
Beck
Morninglightfiltersthroughthe windows, casting long shadows across the cabin floor. I’ve been awake for hours, my body aching from a night on the couch that’s too small for my frame. Not that I regret giving Sunny my bed. The discomfort is worth knowing she slept somewhere safe after her world fell apart yesterday.
Rex whines by the door, ready for his morning walk. I pull on my boots quietly, not wanting to wake her. The memory of her lips against mine, her body pressed against me in the kitchen, makes my hands unsteady with the laces. That kiss broke something loose inside me, something I thought had died years ago.
Outside, the mountain air bites with an early morning chill. Rex bounds ahead as we follow our usual trail, but nothing feels usual anymore. The woman sleeping in my bed has upended everything.
“What are we doing, boy?” I mutter as Rex sniffs at a fallen log. He looks back with what I swear is judgment in his eyes. “Yeah, I know. Getting in too deep.”
By the time we circle back, coffee already fills the cabin with its rich scent. Sunny stands at the stove wearing my flannel shirt from yesterday, her hair a wild tangle around her shoulders. She hasn’t noticed me yet, and I take a moment to watch her move through my kitchen like she belongs there as she talks to her friend Maya explaining the situation and thanking her for the invite to stay before hanging up the phone and my heart throbs. I don’t want her to leave.
She belongs here. The thought blindsides me with its certainty.
“Morning,” I say, my voice rougher than intended.
She turns, coffeepot in hand, and smiles. That smile hits me in the chest every time. “Hey there, mountain man. Hope you don’t mind my raiding your kitchen.”
“Mi casa es su casa.” The phrase slips out before I can think better of it.
Something flickers across her face—vulnerability, maybe hope—before she masks it with another smile. “I make a mean breakfast. It’s the least I can do for my knight in flannel armor.”
We fall into a peaceful rhythm, moving around each other in the kitchen. Her hip bumps mine as she reaches for plates. My hand brushes hers when passing the butter. Each contact sends electricity through my veins.
“Sleep okay?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“Better than I should have, all things considered.” She flips a pancake with expert precision. “Your bed is ridiculouslycomfortable. You, on the other hand, look like you wrestled a bear all night.”
“Couch and I had some disagreements.”
She winces. “I feel terrible about that.”
“Don’t.” My hand finds the small of her back as I reach around her for mugs. “Worth it.”
Her breath catches at the contact, and she leans into my touch for just a moment before moving away to serve the food.
Over breakfast, she tells me about the calls she needs to make—landlord, insurance, tow truck, work. Reality crashing back after our brief bubble of peace. Her face falls more with each item on the list.
"I'll handle the tow truck."
She lifts her gaze at me and relief floods over her. "Really?"
"Yeah. I can handle that one. The rest I feel like you need to talk to everybody."
She nods. "Thank you. That's one thing off my plate. But now, I don’t even know where I’m going to live,” she says, pushing pancake pieces around her plate. “Everything happened so fast. Maya’s place is tiny, and she has a roommate.”
The words rise to my tongue without permission. “Stay here.”
Her fork freezes halfway to her mouth. “What?”
“Stay here,” I repeat, more certain this time. “Until you figure things out.”
“Beck, that’s... I can’t impose like that.”
“Not an imposition if I want you here.” The honesty in my voice surprises us both.
