Page 13 of Pucked Mountain Man
Two things: the warm weight of her thigh across mine and the quiet throb in the knee that saysYou’re a moron, but I’ll allow it.
“Okay?” she asks instantly, palm on my chest, scanning my face.
“Okay.” I mean it. “You?”
“Ego bruised. Otherwise intact.”
We don’t move. Hair messy, freckles bright, gold-flecked eyes too close. My hand is cupping the back of her knee where her leggings rode up. I should let go. I don’t.
“Grady,” she breathes—warning, question, prayer.
“I know,” I say, not sure which rule I’m answering. What comes out isn’t that. “I don’t know who I am if I can’t play.”
Her expression softens. “You’re you,” she says simply. “The guy who made towel goals because we needed rules. The guy who laughs when he pretends not to. The guy who cooks when he’s trying not to grab me.”
I huff a laugh that hurts. “That obvious?”
“Painfully.” Her thumb traces my jaw like she’s been wanting to know how it feels. “You’re allowed to hate this. You’re allowed to be scared.”
“I’m not scared.”
She just looks.
I close my eyes. “I hate feeling weak.”
“You’re not weak,” she says, steady. “You’re recovering. From the inside it looks like weakness. From the outside, it looks like strength.”
“Practice that on all your patients?”
“Only the stubborn ones. And the ones I like.”
Something violent happens inside my ribs. My hand tightens on her knee; she inhales; the hallway gets too small for both of us and our restraint.
“Stevie,” I say like a soft swear. “Come here.”
She does. The kiss isn’t a mistake now—it’s a choice, then another. My mouth learns hers; hers learns mine. It gets messier, handsier. My fingers find bare skin under her sweatshirt; her palm slides under my hoodie to my chest; when her thumb brushes the edge of the cross tattoo, I have to breathe her in like oxygen.
The knee complains when I shift. I don’t push. She feels the flinch, steadies me without making a thing of it, and I don’t know whether to thank her or drag her closer forever.
We surface, foreheads touching, breath rough.
“I’m making you dinner,” I say, voice shredded.
She smiles like she knows exactly what I’m doing and likes me anyway. “Pretty sure the loser was supposed to make dinner.”
“It was a draw.”
“Exactly.”
I stroke the back of her neck once. “Call it selfish. I need something to do with my hands that isn’t…” I let the sentence die. Her pupils blow.
“Cooking,” she says primly, voice not fooling anyone. “Very safe.”
“Debatable. I’m dangerous with garlic.”
She laughs, soft and pleased, and pushes up. I miss her heat instantly and hate how much. She offers me a hand; I take it, using her leverage and my good leg. The knee twinges—manageable. Not the enemy if I respect it.
In the kitchen I pull a skillet and far too many ingredients. She leans against the counter, watching like it’s live theater. Every time our eyes catch, something bright and stupid fizzes through me. I chop, sauté, and try not to memorize the way she tucks a stray curl, the way she hums when she’s happy, the way she looks at me like I’m more than a broken version of myself.
