Page 19 of The Mountain Man's Mail Order Muse
The mornings. The soft smiles. The kisses. The intimacy. The trust I was starting to build in him—brick by careful brick—shakes like it’s caught in an earthquake.
He didn’t want me here.
All of this, every flutter in my chest, every time he looked at me like I was something unexpected and precious—it was a lie wrapped in warmth.
And to think Igavemyself to him. I’ve never been that open or forward with a man. And he took it, knowing full well that he was lying to me. Ugh. He’s just like everyone else. I guess Ishould feel lucky that I’m seeing the red flags this soon in the relationship. Great. Another heartbreak. I need to leave before I fall any harder.
I spin around and march toward the truck parked in the driveway. His truck. I fumble with the keys I found on the counter.
I slide into the driver’s seat, heart hammering, throat burning. I don’t even check to see if they noticed. I just need to go. Be alone. Think.
Because the last thing I want—theverylast thing—is to build another relationship on lies.
I deserve better than that.
The engine roars to life. I shove it into gear and press the gas, gravel crunching beneath the tires. I don’t know where I’m going, and I don’t care.
Anywhere but here.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
DAISY
I blink awayanother hot tear. I walk back to the car after being turned away by yet another front desk associate who tells me I don’t have enough money to stay at their hotel. The cold is settling into my bones now that the adrenaline’s wearing off, and all I have to show for it is a crumpled wad of cash in my pocket—forty-three stupid dollars.
Every room I find is at least a hundred. Some more. Some want deposits. Some don’t allow pets. Not that it matters. I can’t afford any of them. I can’t even afford a place to cry in private.
Pickles is curled up against my chest in his little carrier, whimpering like he knows I’m unraveling. I sit down on the curb in front of a 24-hour gas station, trying to steady my breathing, but everything’s closing in on me. The lights are too bright. The ground is too cold. And I’m too alone.
I stare at Hudson’s car parked a few feet away. It still smells like him inside—like cedarwood and paint and clean laundry. It feels like betrayal just thinking about curling up in the backseat, but what choice do I have? I’ll sleep there tonight and figure everything else out tomorrow. Maybe I’ll call someone. Maybe I won’t.
I reach for the door handle—just about to climb in—when I freeze.
A familiar voice floats through the air, casual and too loud. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
No.
No, no, no, no.
I turn slowly, praying I’m wrong, praying it’s a hallucination born out of exhaustion and fear. But when I look up, it’s him. Mark.
He’s walking toward me like the mayor of this damn town. Same cocky smile. Same sharp eyes that always saw too much and understood too little.
I panic.
My heart launches itself into my throat. I stumble backward, but there’s nowhere to go. The gas station wall is behind me, and Hudson’s car is too far to make a run for it without being obvious.
Mark’s gaze narrows. “Daisy!”
I suck in a shaky breath and look around for an exit—any exit. A side alley. A crowd. A hole in the ground. But there’s nothing. Just concrete and bright lights and that feeling I thought I’d left behind for good—that bone-deep, paralyzing fear.
He’s still coming closer.
I press myself against the wall, trying to disappear. Pickles whimpers again, and I clamp my hand over the carrier.
Not here. Not now. Not him.
