Page 4 of Her Mountain Man Protector
Crap.
I have nowhere to go. No money. Nothing but the wedding dress I’m wearing. It’s ragged and muddy after my escape through the woods, but my jewelry is still intact. Maybe I can pawn my necklace and earrings, get some cash for?—
A sound interrupts my thoughts. My spine straightens, and a second later, the shed door squeaks open, sending a bolt of ice through my chest. Someone is here. I shrink against the couch, hardly daring to breathe as I see the beam of a flashlight cut through the gloom, illuminating the piles of junk around me.
“Sorry,” a deep voice grunts from the doorway. “Light doesn’t work.”
For a crazy moment, I think the man is talking to me, but then I hear another voice answer, “Mind if we take a look?”
“No problem, officers.”
My eyes go wide. Officers. Cops. They must be here to look for me—to force me back to the castle. I can’t let them find me. I stay quiet, hardly daring to breathe as their flashlight beams bounce around the room. Heavy footsteps sound a few feet away, moving closer. Then a figure looms over the couch, looking straight at me.
Oh God…
Light blinds me. My heart lurches, legs trembling as I squint up at the man. He’s a giant, towering above me, his head almost brushing the shed roof. It’s hard to make out his features in the glare of his flashlight, but I don’t think he’s a cop. He’s wearing a flannel shirt, not a uniform, and I feel a flicker of hope as I lift a finger to my lips, gesturing for him to stay quiet.
Please,I beg him silently.Pretend I’m not here.
“Found something?” asks one of the cops.
I hold my breath, waiting for the blow to come. He’s going to tell them. It’s over…they’ve found me.
“No,” the giant says, turning his back on my hiding spot. “Nothing here.”
“Shame. Well, thanks for your cooperation, sir. We’d better get going.”
I can hardly believe my luck. The footsteps are retreating, the flashlight beams extinguished, and then the shed door closesand I’m alone once more. I can just make out the mumbled sound of voices bleeding through the shed door, the wind distorting the noise. Then I hear the unmistakable sound of a car driving away.
The cops are gone.
But that man—the giant in the flannel shirt—he knows I’m here. It sounds like this is his shed. He may not have ratted me out to the cops, but that doesn’t mean I can trust him, and I’m debating making a run for it when I hear the shed door open again.
“Hello?” the familiar deep voice calls. “They’re gone now.”
There’s something comforting about his tone. It’s assertive and self-assured—the kind of voice that takes charge and makes people listen. But I still don’t move. I’m scared. Way more scared than I want to admit.
“Hello?” the man says again. He’s closer now, heading for the couch. It’s too dark to see him properly now the flashlights are gone, but I make out an enormous shadow leaning toward me, the smell of pine hanging in the air mixed with something like engine oil.
“Can’t see a damn thing,” he mutters. “Are you still in here?” A pause, then he adds, “It’s freezing. You’re coming inside with me before you get hypothermia.”
It’s an order, not a question, but I know he’s right. The temperature has been steadily dropping in here since I arrived, and now my arms are covered in goosebumps, the frigid air making my teeth chatter.
“Okay…” I say into the dark, my voice barely a whisper. “Th-thank you.”
Slowly, I emerge from my hiding spot, struggling to untangle myself from the silk folds of my dress. I feel a firm hand gripping my arm, sending a shudder through me as the man helps me out from behind the couch. Despite his calloused palm, his touchis surprisingly gentle as he guides me through the minefield of clutter and out into the chilly September night. I follow him blindly through the dark as we circle the cabin near the shed, reaching a large wooden porch. An automatic light flickers on as we approach, and I finally get a proper glimpse of my giant rescuer.
He must be in his forties and at least six and a half feet tall. I have to tilt my head to look at him properly, taking in his thick black beard and straight nose, his lined brow and deep blue eyes. There’s an intensity about him—a seriousness—and something tells me he’s not the kind of guy who smiles much. My gaze drops to his burly chest, his red flannel shirt stretching over his wide shoulders. Tattoos poke out beneath his sleeves, and I look away before he can catch me staring.
He looks grumpy as heck…and intimidatingly attractive.
It’s not the time to be noticing things like that, but it’s pretty impossible to ignore that the man leading me into his cabin right now is the hottest man I’ve ever seen. He’s big, rugged, and rough around the edges. Nothing like Julian Kingsley or any of the other rich guys back in New York.
“I’m Holden, by the way,” he says as he opens the door to the cabin, ushering me inside.
“I’m Mila.”
The cabin is huge and beautifully built—every surface made of dark wood. But aside from a few pieces of furniture, the place is bare. There are no paintings on the walls or family photographs dotted around. Instead, there are boxes piled along the edge of the living room. Holden sees me looking at them.
