Page 3 of Trouble with the Mountain Man
"Payment plan. Half up front, half when the work's done. No interest."
"That's generous, but still more than I can manage right now."
"What can you manage?"
She names a figure that's less than half my usual rate. Any other client, I'd walk away. But this isn't any other client.
"Deal," I say.
"But that's not nearly enough—"
"I said deal." My tone doesn't invite argument. "I start Monday."
The relief that floods her face is worth every dollar I'm leaving on the table. Hell, I'd do the work for free just to see her smile like that.
"Thank you," she breathes. "I don't know how to repay you."
You could let me take care of you, I think but don't say. You could trust me to be the man who keeps you safe.
Instead, I nod and head for my truck, already planning the job in my head. Already anticipating three weeks of working on Maple Webster's house, seeing her every day, maybe figuring out why a woman like her is struggling alone.
Maybe figuring out why I care so damn much.
three
Maple
Mondaymorningarriveswiththe sound of a diesel engine in my driveway. I peek through the kitchen window to see Flint unloading tools from his truck, moving with purposeful efficiency. Even his work clothes look good on him, faded jeans that hug his muscled thighs, a grey Henley that stretches across his broad chest.
Ally presses her nose to the glass beside me. "Who's that man, Mommy?"
"That's Mr. Miller. He's going to fix our house."
"He's really big."
Yes, he is. And I have no business noticing exactly how big, or how his muscles flex as he hefts a heavy toolbox, or how his dark hair falls across his forehead when he bends down.
I'm a thirty-two-year-old single mother with more responsibilities than money. The last thing I need is to develop a crush on the contractor.
Even if he is the most attractive man I've ever seen.
By the time I've gotten Ally off to school and returned home, Flint has already started excavating around the southeast corner. He works without a shirt now, sweat gleaming on his tanned back as he carefully removes stones from the failing foundation.
I force myself to go inside and focus on my work—freelance graphic design that pays the bills but leaves me flexible enough to be available for Ally. But every sound from outside draws my attention. The scrape of his shovel. The thud of stones being set aside. The low rumble of his voice when he talks to himself while working.
At ten-thirty, I give up pretending to concentrate and take him a glass of iced tea.
He straightens when he sees me coming, accepting the glass with a nod of thanks. Up close, he's even more impressive—broad chest dusted with dark hair, corded forearms, abs that could double as armor plating. A thin scar runs from his left shoulder to his collarbone, and I wonder what put it there.
"How's it going?" I ask, trying to keep my voice casual.
"About what I expected." He drains half the glass in one pull. "Original builders cut corners. Used mortar that's mostly sand, didn't dig deep enough for proper drainage."
"Is that why it's failing?"
"Part of it. Time and weather did the rest." He sets the glass down and crouches beside the excavation. "See this?"
I lean closer, catching his scent—clean sweat, wood smoke, something essentially masculine that makes my pulse quicken. He points to where water has pooled against the foundation.
