Page 10 of Pretending with the Mountain Man
The security system pings on my phone. Movement on the perimeter cameras. I'm on my feet instantly, checking the feed. Just a deer passing through the yard, its eyes reflecting the infrared light.
I exhale slowly, forcing my shoulders to relax. This hypervigilance isn't just about security. It's about keeping myself occupied, focused on anything except the woman sleeping in my bed down the hall.
My phone buzzes with a text from Jake.
Jake:Confirmed PI is Marcus Wells. Former cop. Works exclusively for high-profile clients. Known for being thorough but not dangerous.
I type back.
Me: Thanks. Can we keep eyes on him? I want to know if he makes contact with anyone.
Droppingmy phone on the coffee table, I move to the window, scanning the tree line surrounding the cabin. The moon casts silver light across the clearing, creating shadows that dance with each breeze. This place has always been my sanctuary, away from town, from people, from complications.
Now it feels like a trap, with Melody just a few thin walls away.
The memory of her standing in my kitchen, challenging me, unafraid despite everything she's been through, makes something primal stir in my chest. The way she looked at me when I told her about Club Crimson, curious rather than repulsed. The questions she asked that revealed interests she's never explored.
"Bad idea," I remind myself, pressing my forehead against the cool glass.
A door opens down the hall, followed by soft footsteps padding across hardwood. My body tenses as Melody appears in the doorway, a vision in the oversized t-shirt I left for her to sleep in. It falls to mid-thigh, revealing long legs and curves that the modest clothes she wore earlier had only hinted at.
"Can't sleep?" she asks, her voice soft in the darkness.
"Occupational hazard," I reply, turning to face her fully. "Everything okay?"
She nods, wrapping her arms around herself. "Just restless. Is there any tea?"
"Cabinet next to the sink." I stay rooted to my spot by the window, maintaining distance. "Kettle on the stove."
She moves to the kitchen, and I force myself to remain by the window, watching her silhouette as she fills the kettle and searches for mugs.
"What made you choose security work?" she asks suddenly, breaking the silence as she waits for the water to heat.
The question catches me off guard. "Military background. Seemed like a natural transition when I left the service."
"Sage mentioned you were in the military." She leans against the counter, studying me across the darkened room. "Special forces?"
I nod once. "How'd you guess?"
"The way you move. The way you assess situations." She shrugs. "My uncle was Army Rangers. You have the same alertness."
The kettle begins to whistle, and she turns to silence it. I move toward the kitchen, drawn to her despite my better judgment.
"Two sugars, right?" she asks, surprising me again.
"How did you know that?"
A small smile plays at her lips as she drops sugar into one of the mugs. "I pay attention. At Bean & Bloom this morning, you added exactly two to your coffee."
"Observant," I comment, accepting the mug she offers. Our fingers brush, and that same electric current passes between us.
"Teachers have to be." She blows gently on her tea. "There are twenty-five teenagers in a classroom, all with their own dramas and dynamics. Miss one detail and chaos erupts."
I lean against the counter opposite her. "Is that why you became a teacher? You like observing people?"
"I like helping them discover themselves." Her expression softens, passion evident. "Literature is the perfect vehicle for that. You can discuss love, death, ambition, betrayal, all through the safety of fictional characters."
"Sounds like you've found your calling."
