Page 14 of The Mountain Man's Untamed Bride
Twenty minutes later, I was still waiting by the truck when her voice called from inside the cabin.
"Bodhi! I need help!"
I found her in the bathroom, surrounded by enough beauty products to stock a small pharmacy. The tiny counter wascovered with bottles, tubes, and things I couldn't identify if my life depended on it. She was holding what looked like a metal wand connected to a cord.
"What's wrong?"
"I can't get this to work." She waved the metal instrument. "Your outlets are weird."
I stared at the device. "What is that, a weapon?"
She laughed. "It's a curling iron. For my hair?"
"Your hair looks fine," I said automatically. It was more than fine—it was like living flame cascading over her shoulders—but admitting that seemed dangerous.
"Sweet, but not helpful." She held out the curling iron. "I've tried every outlet, but nothing's working."
I took the device, examining it critically. "Too much power draw. The solar system prioritizes essentials—refrigerator, basic lighting. Hair appliances didn't make the cut."
Her face fell in a way that seemed disproportionate to the situation. "So I can't fix my hair at all?"
Something about her expression—a vulnerability I hadn't seen before—made me hesitate instead of dismissing her concern outright.
"Show me what you're trying to do."
Twenty minutes and a crash course in the mysteries of hair curling later, I found myself standing behind Scarlett, awkwardly twisting sections of her hair around my fingers to create loose waves. Her improvised solution involved me wrapping strands around my fingers while she counted to thirty, then carefully releasing them into what she called "finger curls."
"You're actually pretty good at this," she remarked, watching me in the mirror as I fumbled with another section of silky red hair. "Those ranger skills transferring to hair styling?"
"Rope work," I muttered, trying to ignore how intimate this felt. "Similar principle."
"Ah yes, because women's hair and tactical gear are practically the same thing."
Her scent—something floral and expensive—filled the small bathroom, making it hard to concentrate. Each time my fingers brushed against her neck, she would inhale slightly, and I found myself deliberately letting my knuckles graze the sensitive skin more often than necessary. Standing this close, I could see the freckles dusting her shoulders where her sundress left them exposed.
"There," I finally said, stepping back before I did something stupid. "Will that work?"
She examined herself critically in the mirror, then smiled. "Not bad, mountain man. Not bad at all."
I escaped to the truck, needing fresh air and distance. What was happening to me? I'd survived firefights with more composure than I was showing around this woman.
Just as I thought we might finally leave, she reappeared in the doorway, calling for assistance again. This time, she was holding what looked like tiny black spiders.
"I need help with my lashes," she announced.
"Your what?"
"Eyelashes. False ones." She held up the tiny strips. "I can't see properly to apply them."
"We're going to Mabel's," I reminded her. "Not a photo shoot."
Her eyebrows shot up. "A girl has to have her face on, even in the wilderness. Now help me with these lashes." She thrust a small tube toward me. "Put a tiny dot of glue on the strip, then place it on my lash line. Easy."
Nothing about this seemed easy.
Fifteen excruciating minutes later, with Scarlett directing me like a general commanding troops ("No, not there! Higher! Thinner line of glue! Careful, you'll poke my eye out!"), we had successfully applied what appeared to be caterpillars to her eyelids.
"Perfect!" She batted her newly enhanced lashes at me. "What do you think?"
