Page 6 of Her Mountain Man Protector
God, what is wrong with me?
I should be thinking about what I’m going to do, figuring out my next move. Heck, I just ditched a man at the altar; my focus should be on that and nothing else. But I can’t help it. My mind keeps drifting back to Holden’s hulking body, his tattoos, his deep blue eyes—the color of the sky when the sun begins to set.
No, Mila! Stop thinking poetic thoughts about his eyes.
I try to tell myself it’s just the exhaustion and weirdness of today getting to me, making me crazy. But deep down, I know it’s more than that. Holden is already under my skin, stirring something I’ve never felt before.
Something that feels a lot like longing.
4
HOLDEN
I can hearthe rush of the shower as I bustle around in the kitchen, making Mila a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches. I try hard to ignore the fact that she’s naked in my bathroom right now, just on the other side of the wall. But it doesn’t work. I can feel something tightening inside me, blood rushing downward in a way that makes me groan in annoyance.
Goddammit, pull yourself together.
Ever since I found Mila hiding in my shed, it’s like I’ve lost control of my body. Hell, my mind, too. But I can’t help it. She’s so beautiful it hurts; I almost stopped breathing when I saw her lit up by the porch light—her angelic face, her thick curves, the way she filled out her wedding dress. All I could do was stare at her, trying to pretend like I wasn’t.
With a sigh, I plate up the grilled cheese sandwiches, setting them on the table just as the bathroom door opens. I turn to see Mila padding toward me, my t-shirt falling to her knees. Her wet brown hair is tied back, her makeup from earlier washed away, and my heart stutters all over again as I look at her.
Fuck, she’s so pretty.
My gaze roams her pale, heart-shaped face, from her rosebud lips to her olive green eyes. She looks like an angel: fresh-facedand sweet as hell. And even my giant t-shirt can’t hide her plump curves. My mouth goes dry as I make out the swell of her breasts, and I clear my throat, forcing myself to focus on her wedding dress instead. She’s holding it out as far away from her as possible, like it’s contaminated.
“I’ll hang it up in my closet,” I tell her, taking the silky fabric from her hands. “You sit down and eat.”
The words come out like an order. I don’t mean them to, but something about Mila brings out a fierce protectiveness in me. I want her warm, safe, and fed.
“Thank you, Holden,” she says in that sweet voice as she sits down and reaches for a grilled cheese. “These look amazing.”
I leave her to eat, taking the wedding dress to my bedroom and hanging it up carefully. Bridal wear isn’t exactly my area of expertise, but I can tell it’s expensive. The fabric is impossibly soft, like gossamer against my fingers, and as I look at it, a million questions flood my mind. There’s so much I want to know about Mila. Who the hell was she going to marry? Why couldn’t she go through with it? Why did she run away from her guests and hide in my shed?
I’d love nothing more than to get some answers. But as I head back into the living room, watching as Mila eagerly tucks into her sandwiches, I know now isn’t the time. She’s had a rough day. She looks exhausted, and what she needs now is a good night’s sleep, not to be bombarded by my questions.
I’m glad she didn’t get married.
It’s a totally illogical thought. This girl is a stranger, and it shouldn’t make any difference to me if she’s married or not. But I can’t help the relief I feel. Nor can I help the jealousy that burns through me when I think about how she must have agreed to marry someone—accepted a proposal—even if she didn’t go through with it.
Fuck, this isn’t good.
Mila is so damn young. So vulnerable. I’m pushing forty-five, and according to the cops, this curvy beauty is twenty-four. Hell, she’s only a couple of years older than my daughter. I shouldn’t be feeling this way about her. Ican’tfeel this way about her. It’s all wrong. I’m a grown man, dammit, and I need to control myself.
“Do you want some?” Mila asks, pulling me from my thoughts. She gestures to her sandwich.
“No, thanks. I’m good.”
She takes another bite, cheese oozing from the toasted bread. “Has anyone ever told you that you make a mean grilled cheese?”
I almost smile. “Only my daughter.”
Mila’s eyebrows lift. “You have a daughter?” She looks around as if she’s expecting Isabelle to suddenly appear.
“Yeah. Isabelle. She’s grown up now. Lives with her boyfriend farther up the mountain.”
Mila is quiet for a moment, then asks, “And Isabelle’s mom?”
“No idea who she is.” I sit down opposite Mila, leaning back in my chair. “I adopted my daughter when she was a baby. Found her abandoned on the doorstep of the fire station where I worked.”
