Page 15 of Moody Mountain Man
His fists are at his side. “You weren’t pathetic. I wanted more, too. God, Annie, I wanted it so bad it scared me.”
I step closer, my hand brushing his chest. His heart pounds under my palm. “Then why now? Why last night? Why are you here with me this morning instead of back in your cabin pretending none of this matters?”
He closes his eyes, jaw working. When he opens them again, they’re stripped bare. “Because I realized the only thing worse than letting you in was losing you again.”
The truth slams through me, shaking something loose I didn’t know I’d been holding.
He cups my face, rough palms gentle against my skin. “I don’t want to hide from you anymore. I don’t want to waste another second pretending you’re not the only thing that’s felt right since I walked away from everything else.” His voice breaks. “Annie, I’ve been half in love with you since the day you shoved a cinnamon roll at me and told me to smile more.”
Tears sting my eyes, hot and relentless. I laugh through them, shaky. “And do you?”
“What?”
“Smile more.”
A ghost of a smile pulls at his mouth. “Only with you.”
I can’t hold it in anymore. The words tumble out, raw and certain. “I love you, Cal.”
His breath stutters. For a heartbeat, I think he’ll bolt. Then his arms are around me, crushing me against him, his mouth claiming mine in a kiss that’s tender and desperate and everything.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests on mine. “I love you too,” he says hoarsely. “More than I should. More than I ever thought I could again.”
My tears spill over, soaking his shirt. “Then don’t ever walk away again.”
His arms tighten. “I won’t. You’re it for me, Annie. The only one.”
We don’t move for a long time. Just stand there, holding on like the world might end if we let go.
Eventually, he kisses the corner of my eye, the edge of my smile, every place the tears fell. He touches me like I’m fragile, even though I know he sees I’m not.
I tug him back to the counter and push a mug of fresh coffee into his hand. “You’re staying,” I say, not asking.
“Yeah,” he answers, no hesitation.
I start mixing dough, and he lingers close, leaning against the counter, watching me. I toss him a bowl. “You’re helping.”
He raises a brow but doesn’t argue, rolling up his sleeves and sliding in beside me. His big hands are clumsy with the flour, but he follows my lead. I guide his fingers through the motion, our hands dusted white, our arms brushing.
We laugh when he drops too much cinnamon in the bowl. We bump hips, flirt softly, kiss between steps.
It feels like more than a morning in a bakery. It feels like the start of something we can build.
Something permanent.
Later, when the dough is rising and the timers are set, we curl up on the small couch upstairs. His arm is heavy around me, his chest warm against my back.
“You really love me?” he murmurs into my hair, like he still can’t believe it.
“More than muffins,” I whisper.
He chuckles, pressing a kiss to my neck. “That’s serious.”
“It is.”
His arms tighten. “I’m not letting you go.”
“You’d better not,” I tease, but my heart is steady, certain.
