Page 10 of The Mountain Man's Mail Order Muse
We’re tangled together, pressed so close that the world outside the room blurs and fades. My hands tremble, caught between wanting to reach out and the fear of crossing some invisible line. There’s something raw and fragile in this moment, something neither of us expected but both feel.
I hope he doesn’t notice how hard I’m breathing or how my heart is thudding against my ribs like it’s trying to break free. His touch is gentle, reverent almost, like he doesn’t get to touch people often and wants to get it exactly right.
He chuckles awkwardly and starts to shift, but stops.
“What...?” I ask.
“Your hair,” he says, reaching up. “It’s stuck. Button snag.”
Of course it is.
His fingers are careful as they try to untangle me, brushing against my neck, his breath soft against my cheek. The flannel of his shirt is warm where it touches me, and I’m acutely aware of every place our bodies meet.
“There,” he murmurs, finally tugging the last strand free.
But neither of us moves.
Not yet.
We’re still standing too close. His hands drop slowly, but he doesn’t step away. I don’t either.
“Thanks,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Anytime,” he replies, but it sounds like he means something else entirely.
I smile up at him, eyes locked, breaths mingling.
I move to the old stool in the corner of the studio, knees pulled up, arms hugging them close. Hudson’s picks up a brush standing at the easel, a brush tucked between his fingers, his brow furrowed just slightly like the world disappears when he paints.
I could watch him for hours.
He’s in his zone, and I’m in awe. The painting he’s working on looks like it could breathe. The layers of green fold into each other like a secret. The clouds in the sky look like they’re moving. It’s... breathtaking. Quiet magic. And somehow, he just does it—like it's nothing.
“How did you learn to paint like this?” I ask softly, not wanting to break the spell.
He glances at me over his shoulder. “My mom,” he says, voice a little rough, like the memory scrapes against something tender inside him. “She used to paint. Mostly landscapes—natural stuff. Trees, rivers, mountains. She said nature was honest, and people were messy. So she taught me to look for the quiet things.”
I smile, picturing a young version of him sitting beside her, a paintbrush too big in his hand, probably trying to copy whatever she did.
“She taught you?”
He nods, dabbing at a patch of light on the canvas. “When I was a teenager, we’d paint together on the back porch. Didn’t matter if it was freezing or raining, we’d be out there with our mugs of tea and our brushes. It was the only time I really felt... still.”
His voice trails off like he’s in that moment again.
“She sounds lovely,” I say, my chest warming at the picture he’s painted—one made of memory, not brushstrokes.
He nods. “She was. She passed a while back, but I still feel her sometimes, when I’m out in the trees or when I catch the light just right in a painting.” He pauses, then adds, “Painting’s always been my center. When life gets loud, I come in here. It’s quiet again.”
I let his words settle over me like a blanket. There’s something so vulnerable about the way he shares, like it costs him something. And yet, he’s giving it freely.
I shift on the stool and lean forward slightly. “I think it’s beautiful—that you have something like this.
“Do you ever draw people?” I ask.
“Hah!” He laughs. “No, I don’t even think I would know where to start.”
“I have an idea,” I say, more playfully than I feel. My heart’s already fluttering, stupid with hope. “You should draw me.”
