Page 10 of Stone Cold Mountain Man
I stand and cross the small room, joining him at the window. Beyond the glass, the night has gone white. Fat flakes drift lazily through the glow of the porch light, settling on the ground in a blanket that looks inches thick already.
“It would be magical,” I say, leaning closer to the cool pane. “If I didn’t have to drive home in it.”
Wade’s reflection meets mine in the glass, his expression turning serious. “You’re not driving anywhere in this,” he says. “The road will be a sheet of ice by the time you hit the first turn.”
My heart does a funny little skip. The practical part of me knows he’s right — I barely made it up here in daylight with clear roads. But another part of me is suddenly thinking about my little succulent sitting alone back at the cabin.
“Dottie,” I blurt.
“Your plant?” His brow lifts, almost amused.
“She’s by herself.”
His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile.
“Dottie will survive one night.” He leans a shoulder against the window frame, easy but certain. “You, on the other hand, might not if you try to drive in this weather.”
I bite my lip, glancing toward the couch, then the hallway. “There isn’t exactly room for two, though.”
“I’ll take the floor.” He says it like it’s obvious, like there’s no argument to make.
That isn’t the scenario I’d pictured in my head a few times—okay, maybe more than a few — when I thought about Wade. There’d been less flannel and more—well, other things. But a snowstorm wasn’t in any of those mental drafts, and maybe this is the best I’m going to get an unexpected night in his cabin, both of us warm and safe while winter piles up outside.
I glance up at him. Flecks of silver speckle his temples and the lines around his eyes show the life he’s already lived. There is no more hiding my attraction to this man, even to myself. But when he looks at me, does he see me as someone more than his neighbor?
Wade’s still looking out at the snow, but there’s the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
My pulse jumps, and I decide I don’t mind at all.
8
Taylor
If you’d told me this morning that I’d end the day snowed in at Wade’s cabin, playing Uno by lamplight, I would’ve laughed you off the mountain.
Yet here we are—me curled on one end of a sofa that’s about as wide as a plank, Wade sitting on the other, the storm whispering against the windows while a deck of well-worn Uno cards sprawls between us.
“No mercy this time,” I warn, fanning out my last card with theatrical flair. “Seven losses are enough.”
He doesn’t react—just that maddeningly calm expression, like he’s negotiating a high-stakes deal instead of deciding between a blue reverse and a green skip.
My final card matches the pile color. Victory is so close I can taste it. All I need is for him to play literally anything that isn’t a Draw Four.
Wade studies his hand, slow as molasses, then lays a card on the stack.
Black.
Draw Four.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I throw my hands in the air. “That’s your fifth one in two games! You’re stacking the deck.”
A rare, full laugh bursts out of him—deep and warm, rolling through the cabin like a log tumbling in a fireplace.
I narrow my eyes. “Oh, you think this is funny?”
“Little bit.” He leans back, relaxed and infuriating.
Before I can think better of it, I lunge across the cushions, reaching for his cards. “Let me see that hand, mountain man.”
