Page 3 of Mixed Up with the Mountain Man
"Authentic?"
"Most men I know in Vancouver work in tech or finance. They wear expensive suits and talk about quarterly projections." She sips her wine, studying me over the rim. "You look like you could wrestle a bear."
"Only on weekends," I deadpan, earning another laugh.
We talk as the fire crackles and the wine disappears. She tells me about her law career, her growing dissatisfaction with corporate life, her secret dream of opening a bookstore. I tell her about Silver Ridge, about sustainable forestry, about the satisfaction of working with my hands.
What strikes me most is how we fit together conversationally—finishing each other's thoughts, sharing the same sense of humor, both searching for something more meaningful than the lives we've been living. She's running from a world that didn't value her authenticity. I've been waiting for someone who could appreciate the life I've built here.
"Sounds peaceful," she says, curling deeper into the couch cushions.
"Can be. Also isolated. Not many career opportunities for corporate lawyers."
"Maybe I don't want to be a corporate lawyer anymore." Her eyes meet mine directly, and I see the same longing for change that's been driving my own choices. "Maybe I want something real for once."
"What would you want to be?"
"Someone braver." She meets my eyes directly. "Someone who takes risks instead of always playing it safe. Someone who trusts her instincts instead of always second-guessing herself."
The vulnerability in her voice, the way she's looking at me like I might be the answer to questions she's been afraid to ask, makes my chest tight with emotion. She's not just beautiful—she's brave enough to admit she's lost, smart enough to know she needs to change, strong enough to walk away from security for the chance at something real.
"Emma."
"Yes?"
"I should probably mention I haven't been with anyone in over a year."
Her eyes widen slightly. "Why are you telling me that?"
I lean closer, drawn by some force I can't resist. "Because if I kiss you right now, I won't want to stop. And I want you to know this isn't something I do casually. This feeling—what's happening between us—I've never experienced anything like it."
Her breath catches. "Kiss me anyway."
Permission granted.
I close the distance between us, one hand sliding into her silky hair, the other settling at her waist. The first touch of her lips is electric—soft and warm and perfect. She melts into me immediately, her hands fisting in my shirt.
When I deepen the kiss, she makes a small sound that goes straight to my cock. She tastes like wine and possibility, and I want to devour her completely.
"Leo," she breathes against my mouth when we break apart.
"Tell me what you want." My voice sounds foreign to my own ears—rough with need.
"You." The word is barely a whisper. "I want you."
Something snaps inside me. I lift her easily, her legs wrapping around my waist as I stand. She weighs nothing in my arms, all soft curves and feminine warmth.
I carry her down the hall, my hands spanning her narrow waist, her scent filling my lungs. This is madness. I've known her for three hours. But the rightness of it, the way she fits against me like she was made for my arms, silences every rational thought.
In my bedroom, I set her down gently beside the bed. The lamplight catches in her hair, turning it to spun gold. She's so beautiful it makes my chest ache.
"Last chance to change your mind," I tell her, though saying the words nearly kills me.
"I'm not changing my mind." Her hands come up to frame my face, thumbs tracing my cheekbones. "Are you?"
Instead of answering, I kiss her again, deeper this time, my hands finding the hem of her blouse. She helps me lift it over her head, then reaches for my shirt with trembling fingers.
When her hands hit my bare chest, I growl low in my throat. Her touch is electric, feminine fingers exploring the hard planes of muscle, tracing scars with unexpected tenderness.
