Page 10 of Her Mountain Man Protector
I peer into the box. It’s full of gardening tools and packets of seeds, along with some flower pots and a pair of thick gloves. I’d almost forgotten about it.
“Not exactly,” I tell her. “My mom loved to garden. She died a long time ago, soon after I adopted Isabelle. I always meant to start a garden just like hers, but never got around to it in the suburbs.” I rifle through the box, looking at all the varieties of seeds. “Figured I could start one here.”
“That’s really sweet, Holden. I’m sorry about your mom.”
I murmur my thanks. It’s been over twenty years, but thinking about her still makes my heart squeeze with bittersweet emotion. Whenever I picture her, she’s always pottering around in the backyard, watering and pruning, her gloves covered in mud.
“I’ve always dreamed of having a garden, too,” Mila says softly, like she’s admitting a secret. “With herbs, flowers, fruits, vegetables…nothing big or fancy, just a simple little patch with lots of color.”
“Sounds perfect.” I glance at her, my heart thumping at the wistful look on her face. “You don’t have something like that already, back in the Hamptons?”
“No.” She lets out a sigh. “Mom says gardening is dirty and not a suitable hobby for a young woman. She says that’s what we pay the gardener for.”
There’s a hint of sadness in Mila’s voice, and it’s not the first time I’ve heard her sound upset when talking about her family. I’ve been trying not to push her too hard, but I have so many questions about her life and the people in it. The curiosity burns almost as bright as my desire as I look at her angelic face, smooth and soft.
I need to know.
I need to know why this beautiful woman fled her wedding. Why she seems to be avoiding going back to her family. But mostof all, I need to know about the man she left at the altar. The man whose marriage proposal she accepted.
It hits all over again. The jealousy. The sickening pressure in my chest when I think about Mila being promised to another man. Red-hot rage burns in my veins at the thought of him, this faceless groom. I try to remind myself that she didn’t marry him. She ran away from him. But my stomach still churns when I think about Mila walking down the aisle toward someone else—someone who isn’t me.
Fuck, I’m losing my mind.
“Holden?”
My anger melts away at the sound of Mila’s sweet voice. I focus my gaze on hers, my heart flooding with affection at the concern on her face.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
I nod. Then I reach for her hand, clasping it in mine, my skin buzzing at the contact. Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t pull away. She lets me lead her to the couch, and we sit down together. Mila looks nervous, like she’s expecting bad news.
“Listen…” I begin.
“It’s okay, Holden.” She squeezes my hand. “You don’t have to say anything. You’ve been so kind to me, and I’m so grateful for everything. Just give me a second to grab my stuff?—”
“What?” I frown at her. “Your stuff?”
She nods uncertainly. “Yes, so I can leave…”
“Leave?” A flash of panic grips my throat. “You want to leave?”
“No,” Mila says quickly. “But I assume that’s what you’re about to ask me? You’ve already done so much for me, and I know I’ve outstayed my welcome?—”
The thought of this sweet angel ever “outstaying her welcome” is so crazy that for a second I just stare at her blankly.
“Mila, I’m not asking you to leave,” I say firmly. “I want you to stay.”
“Oh…” Color rises to her cheeks as she looks at me. “So what is it?”
“I want to know what happened at the wedding.” I lean toward her, trying not to sound as desperate for answers as I feel. “Why did you run away? Why didn’t you stay with your family? And who—” I grit my teeth, “—who was the groom?”
Mila looks down at her lap. Silence stretches between us, but I don’t dare to say another word. I don’t want to do anything that could scare her off or encourage her to leave. Eventually, after a minute of quiet, she looks up at me decisively. Then she begins to speak.
7
MILA
I knewI’d have to open up to Holden eventually. I’ve noticed his curious looks—felt them brewing between us, his unasked questions hanging in the air like living things. Heck, you can’t show up at someone’s home in a wedding dress and expect them not to have questions. But I’m still reluctant to talk about Julian Kingsley and my parents. It’s not that I don’t trust Holden—I do. It’s just that being here with him is so perfect, and I don’t want to taint the atmosphere with all my dumb family drama.
