Page 8 of Stone Cold Mountain Man
“BBQ cheeseburger casserole,” I explain because silence makes me babble. “My Grandma Dora’s recipe. It’s legendary at potlucks. I promise it doesn’t contain any surprise wildlife.”
The corner of his mouth tips up before he smooths it away. “Smells good.”
“High praise,” I tease, even as something in my chest does an inconvenient flutter.
He shifts the dish to one arm and gestures toward the porch. “You could stay and eat with me if you want.”
I blink. Of all the things I expected—gruff thank you, maybe a curt nod—an invitation wasn’t on the list.
“You’re inviting me to dinner?” I ask, just to be sure I heard right.
“Unless you’ve got better plans,” he says, voice low, eyes steady on mine.
I look down at my flour-dusted sweater, then back up at him. My brain warns about proximity and mysterious attraction, but my stomach—and something a little lower—vote yes.
“I’d like that,” I say, surprising us both with how easily the words come out.
His gaze softens just enough to make me warm all over. He pushes the cabin door open with his hip and steps aside, waiting for me to go first.
As I walk past, I tell myself it’s just dinner. A simple thank-you meal between neighbors.
But when I catch the quiet curve at the corner of his mouth as I pass, I’m not sure I believe myself.
6
Wade
I push the door open with my hip, holding the casserole steady, and step aside so she can come in. Taylor slips past me, carrying a breeze of cold air and something faintly sweet—vanilla, maybe. Or cinnamon. Whatever it is, it doesn’t belong in my cabin, but the place feels warmer the second she’s inside.
She looks around, taking in the log walls and the scarred table tucked under the window. Her eyes pause on the scratches across my cheek.
“You didn’t tell me you got torn up,” she says, brows knitting.
“It’s nothing,” I answer, setting the casserole on the counter.
“Nothing?” She tilts her head. “You sprinted through a forest to rescue me. Those branches didn’t exactly roll out a red carpet.”
I grunt, hoping that’ll be the end of it, but she keeps studying the marks.
“Do you have a first aid kit?” she asks. “Or are you planning to be a true mountain man and rub some dirt in it, call it a day?”
The words catch me off guard. A laugh breaks out—quick, real, the kind I don’t let out often. Her face lights up at the sound, and for a heartbeat I almost forget the sting on my skin.
“I’ve got a kit,” I say, opening the cabinet by the fridge. I pull out a battered metal tin and hand it over.
“Sit,” she orders, pointing to the table.
I raise a brow, but I sit. She pops the latch and starts sorting gauze and antiseptic like she’s done this a hundred times.
Her sweater rides up a little as she leans closer, and I suddenly become hyper-aware of how close she is—of the way her hair brushes her jaw, of the faint scent of soap clinging to her skin. My gaze betrays me, drifting to where her hip is nearly level with my line of sight.
Focus, Wade.
She dabs at a scratch on my cheek with a cotton pad. “You really went charging in there,” she murmurs.
“You screamed,” I say simply.
Her lips twitch, like she doesn’t know whether to smile or apologize. “Still, thank you.”
