Page 22 of Single Mom's Mountain Men
I eye his lips as they touch the rim and think about the kiss again. Iwonder what he tastes like.
"Biscuits are fine," he says and I blink the thought away. He dumps out the rest of the coffee into the sink and starts rinsing it out. "I should get to work."
'What do you do?" I ask curiously as I toss pieces of bacon onto a heated pan.
"We own a family timber business," he says.
"Oh." No wonder all three men are so damn physically fit. They were actual lumberjacks. "That's neat."
He smirks at me. "Neat?"
"Yeah. Well, I'm a city girl, but I've always been fascinated by people who work with nature and all that. Romanticized it quite a bit in my head."
He raises an eyebrow and for a second, I think he's going to call me stupid. It does sound stupid when I say it like that.
But then a crooked smile appears at the corner of his lips revealing just a hint of a dimple similar to what Charlie has.
"Interesting," he says. "So you're a nature girl."
"I am."
"You a tree-hugger too?"
I think about it. "I mean I care about the environment, if that's what you're asking but..."
"I was just wondering if I would wake up one day to find you tied to my trees, begging me not to cut them down."
That has surprised laughter shooting out of me. "Wait, has that actually happened before?"
"Yup. A co-ed Wes hooked up with was big into the environment. One day I woke up and she'd tied herself to an oak. It was a real pain to get her out."
I laugh again and he smiles at me.
"If it calms your mind we try to do our jobs sustainably. We don't go above a certain quota, we’re big on replanting, and we make sure we take down the sick and diseased trees first, even if that affects our bottom line."
I nod. "I respect that."
He nods back and leaves soon after I take the bacon off of the fire. He grabs a rasher with his bare hand, seemingly not bothered by the scalding heat, and chews on the piece as he walks away.
I watch him and try not to admire his ass in those Wranglers.
CHAPTER 8
Charlie
I’m lulled out of my sleep by the sound of feminine laughter and the fresh aroma of cooked bacon. My stomach grumbles as I call out lightly, “Ma ?”
But then as my eyes flutter open to find the familiar ceiling of my own bedroom, I remember.
My mother is dead.
I sit up as the feminine laughter echoes again and I realize it doesn't sound like my mother’s laugh. It’s throatier, and it’s not followed by mom's country drawl. Instead, it’s a nearly unfamiliar voice that accompanies the laugh along with my brother’s much more familiar brogue.
The foreign voice suddenly awakens me truly and drags me back to the day before.
Patty. She’s in the kitchen right now, cooking bacon and the Lord knows what else.
And even as my stomach growls in hunger once more, my cock throbs. I stare down at the bulge in my boxers, noting that it’s larger than normal.
