Page 7 of Moody Mountain Man
Annie doesn’t belong in my world. She’s all sugar and light, the smell of cinnamon and morning. Too bright. Too warm. The kind of woman a man like me has no business touching twice.
So why the hell did I invite her up here?
I keep asking myself that as I chop firewood outside the cabin. It’s colder than I expected, the kind of sharp fall air that promises early snow. The fire inside’s already going, a stew bubbling low on the stove, and I’ve even put out a bottle of wine I found buried in a kitchen cabinet. Maybe I’ve been working my way back to this since the day she kissed me and I kissed her back.
Her truck pulls up just as the sun dips behind the mountain, casting everything in gold. She hops out wearing jeans and boots, a chunky orange sweater that hugs her curves, and that soft smile that always makes me feel like I can breathe again.
“You cook?” she teases as she steps onto the porch.
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I just figured you lived on canned chili and soup.”
“Only in the winter.”
She laughs and ducks inside, and damn if it doesn’t feel like she’s always belonged here. Her presence fills the space—her scent, her laugh, her warmth.
I shut the door behind her. “Storm’s rolling in sooner than they thought. Might not be safe to drive back tonight.”
Her eyes sparkle. “So you’ve lured me here under false pretenses?”
“I’m giving you home-cooked stew and a cozy fire. If that’s not romance, I don’t know what is.”
She takes in the space, the wood beams, the stone fireplace, and the plaid throw on the couch.
“I like it here,” she says softly.
“You don’t miss being surrounded by pumpkin-scented chaos?”
She smirks. “I’ll have you know chaos is a cornerstone of small-town charm.”
I pour her a glass of wine and hand it over. She takes it, fingers brushing mine on purpose, if I’m not mistaken. She’s up to something.
“You hungry?” I ask.
“Starving.”
Dinner is simple—stew, sourdough, leftover pie from her café that she insisted on bringing. We eat by the fire, knees bumping under the table, conversation drifting from kitchen repairs to fall festivals to the ridiculous idea of entering the pumpkin carving contest together.
“Do you even know how to carve a pumpkin?” she asks, skeptical.
“I was a firefighter. I know how to use sharp tools.”
“That’s not exactly a yes.”
We finish the wine. She laughs more than I deserve. And I can’t stop watching the way her lips curve, or how her fingers toy with the edge of her glass when she’s nervous.
“You cold?” I ask when she rubs her hands up and down her arms.
“A little. I think the temperature outside has dropped.”
I stand and toss another log on the fire, then pause. “You want something to sleep in?”
She arches a brow. “I’m staying?”
I nod. “Road’s iced over. You’re not going anywhere tonight.” I’m not sure if that’s precisely true, but it gives us both the permission we need to keep the night going.
She hums, unbothered. “In that case, yes. Something cozy and oversized, please. Bonus points if it smells like you.”
