Page 5 of Moody Mountain Man
Annie
Cal Redmond is ruining my life.
He’s a menace. A tall, brooding, ex-firefighter-turned-carpenter menace with hands that fix things and eyes that undo me.
I can’t stop thinking about him.
Which is really inconvenient, considering I have a full kitchen to sanitize, pie orders to prep, a fall bonfire event this weekend, and a reputation to maintain as the town’s cheeriest café owner.
I do not have time to fantasize about Cal’s hands on my waist or his mouth on my neck or that low rumble of his voice when he says my name like it means something.
And yet.
It starts innocently enough.
I’m working late, prepping dough for tomorrow’s cider-glazed hand pies, when I hear the bell above the door.
I wipe my hands on a towel and call, “Sorry, we’re closed!”
Cal, filling the doorway like some lumberjack thirst trap, in his worn jacket and steel-toe boots, with a toolbox in one hand and a brown paper sack in the other.
He looks tired. And edible.
“I brought you a sandwich from dinner,” he says, holding up the sack.
“Oh.” I blink. “Thanks, you know I forget to eat when I’m baking.”
He doesn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitches, which is basically a grin in Cal-speak. He steps inside, his eyes sweeping the café like he’s assessing for more fire hazards. Then they land on me. Or more accurately, on my hips.
“Are those the same leggings you wore yesterday?”
I glance down. “No. These are my other black pair.”
His gaze lingers. “You should stop wearing those in public.”
My entire body flushes.
“Cal.”
“Annie.”
He says my name like it’s a secret or a promise.
I cross my arms. “Are you flirting with me?”
“I’m trying not to.”
“Failing.”
“Spectacularly.”
There’s a pause, a long, slow beat filled with heat. I know I should step back, throw a joke at the tension, keep it light like I always do.
But I’m tired of pretending.
I take a step toward him. “You kissed me once.”
His jaw ticks. “I remember.”
