Page 7 of Cider Kissed By the Mountain Man
“I said don’t say anything!”
But she was laughing as she said it—not the embarrassed giggle I might have expected, but real laughter that made something twist uncomfortably in my chest. She looked ridiculous, covered in mud and sitting in three inches of dirty water, and she was laughing about it.
Fuck.I was in trouble.
The kind of trouble you didn’t walk away from clean. The kind that left you aching in all the wrong ways.
I finished the repair and waded through the mud to where she sat and held out my hand, trying to ignore the way her laughter made her whole face light up. “This is becoming a habit.”
She took my hand, and I pulled her to her feet, but her feet were slippery with mud and momentum carried her forward, straight into my arms. I caught her automatically and suddenly we were pressed together from chest to knee. She was warm and soft and looking up at me with those dark eyes that seemed to see right through every wall I’d built.
“This is definitely becoming a habit,” she echoed breathlessly, her hands splayed against my chest.
I should have let go. Should have stepped back and put some distance between us. Instead, I found myself looking at her mouth, wondering if she tasted as sweet as she smelled.
“A bad habit,” I said, but my voice came out rough.
“The worst,” she agreed, but she didn’t move away.
Neither did I.
We stood there in the middle of the flooded grove, covered in mud and staring at each other like we’d forgotten how to speak. All I could hear was the pounding of my own heartbeatand the whisper of leaves overhead like they were rooting for a kiss that hadn’t happened yet. My thumb found the curve of her hip through the muddy hem of her shirt, and I heard her sharp intake of breath at my touch.
I was losing my mind. That was the only explanation for why I was thinking about kissing a woman I’d known for exactly two days. A woman who was nothing but trouble and complications and everything I’d sworn off.
“Here.” I started unbuttoning my flannel shirt. “Take this.”
“Trent, you don’t have to—”
“Take the shirt, Abby.” I shrugged out of it. I stood there in just my jeans, holding it out to her. “You’re going to freeze in that wet thing.”
She took the flannel from me, her fingers brushing mine in the process. “Thank you. Now turn around.” She made a little twirling motion with her hand.
I thought about not doing as she asked and seeing what she’d do. What I would do. We locked eyes for just a moment before I turned on my heel. I heard the rustle of fabric behind me as she stripped off her muddy shirt, and I had to clench my fists to keep from turning around.Don’t think about it. Don’t think about her soft skin, about what she looks like in just her bra, about how the flannel is going to smell like her afterward.
“Okay,” she said softly. “You can turn around.”
I turned, and every coherent thought left my head.
My flannel shirt hung to mid-thigh on her small frame, the sleeves rolled up to keep her hands free. She’d left it unbuttoned just enough to show a hint of the smooth skin beneath, and her dark hair now fell in waves down her back.
She looked like every fantasy I’d never let myself have. And now she was standing there in my shirt, like the orchard had summoned her just for me.
“Better?” she asked, and there was something in her voice that told me she wasn’t unaffected by this either.
“Much better,” I managed, clearing my throat.
She smiled, a little shy, a little knowing. “You know, if someone had told me a week ago that I’d be standing in a flooded apple orchard wearing the grumpy owner’s shirt, I’d have checked them into a mental health facility.”
She said it like a joke, but the truth was sitting there between us, sticky as spilled cider.
“And now?”
“Now I’m thinking this might be the best look I’ve ever had.”
Her mouth was just inches from mine.
Too close. Too tempting. Too late.
