Page 5 of The Mountain Man's Mail Order Muse
He’s probably twice my age, sure, but he wears it like a leather jacket. He looks like a man who’s chopped wood with his bare hands and maybe once punched someone for calling a woman sweetheart when she didn’t like it.
My brain has completely left my body, which is now being taken over by the intense throbbing between my thighs.
I realize he can tell I’m staring and immediately force a smile. “Hi. I’m Daisy. From, um… Mountain Mates.”
He doesn’t say anything for a second. Just stares at me like he’s not sure I’m real. Or like maybe hereallythought I wouldn’t show.
Then he clears his throat. “You brought a cat.”
I glance down at Pickles, who has no idea how loaded this moment is. “Ya… I told Macy he’s part of the package.”
His lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile. “Of course he is.”
He steps aside, holding the door open, and I brush past him, clutching Pickles a little tighter. I catch the scent of him—woodsmoke and pine and something darker, maybe turpentine—and suddenly I’m hyper-aware of everything. My heartbeat. My breathing. The way his eyes track me.
I shouldn’t feel this attracted to someone I don’t know. But I do. I feel it all the way down to my toes.
He shuts the door behind me, and I catch one last glimpse of the mountain view outside before I turn to face him.
“Thank you for… opening the door,” I say awkwardly. “I wasn’t sure you were going to.”
He just nods, those gray eyes unreadable. “Neither was I.”
Well. That’s comforting.
Still, I can’t help the strange flutter low in my belly. I thought I was coming to marry a stranger out of desperation. I thoughtI’d be bracing myself to sleep in the same house as some crusty old hermit who wanted a maid and a microwave dinner companion.
I stand in his living room and he walks toward me. Pickles chooses theexactwrong moment to launch out of my arms.
One second, he’s nestled against my chest like a good little travel companion. The next, he’s squirming free and leaping to the floor like he owns the place. I gasp and reach for him, but it’s too late—he’s already trotting across the hardwood toward Hudson, tail high, meowing like they’re long-lost friends.
“Pickles, no?—”
But my cat is clearly smitten, too. He circles Hudson’s legs like a fuzzy gray tornado, rubbing against his calves, twining between his boots, and then—oh my God—clawing at his pant leg like he’s scaling Everest.
“I am so, so sorry,” I say, rushing toward them. “He usually doesn’t do this?—”
“It’s fine,” Hudson says, his voice a little rough around the edges. He’s crouching down now, one hand already extended toward Pickles. “He’s friendly.”
“Only with people he likes,” I blush, and I’m not sure why that makes my stomach do a slow, swooping somersault. It’s almost like I’m admitting thatIlike him.
We both reach for Pickles at the same time.
Andwhack!
Our foreheads collide with a soft thunk.
“Ah!” I yelp, pulling back instinctively, one hand to my head.
Hudson flinches, then looks at me—and starts laughing.
I can’t help it. The sound of his laughter—deep and low, surprised and boyish—makes me laugh too. It bubbles up through my chest and spills out, and for a second, we’re just two strangers in a mountain cabin, forehead to forehead, cat pawing our ankles, sharing this faux pas.
And when I open my eyes again, our faces are still close.Reallyclose.
His smile fades slowly, those storm-gray eyes softening as they lock onto mine. His breath fans across my cheek—warm, woodsy, intoxicating. I’m not sure which one of us leans in first, or if we’re both just frozen, suspended in that electric, buzzing space between almost and not-quite.
“You okay?” he murmurs, his voice lower than usual—rougher, like gravel and honey.
