Page 15 of Wild for the Mountain Man
We eat in the soft light of the fire, snow falling steady outside. Halfway through, I reach for the bottle on the shelf … good bourbon, smooth and amber.
“Helps the cold … and any pain,” I say, pouring a finger into each glass. “You can say no.”
She studies the glass, then lifts it. “Only one, please.”
We sip. The burn starts warm and low, loosening the edges around us.
“See?” I say. “Medicinal.”
“Right,” she says, smiling into the rim. “Doctor Lawson’s orders.”
The atmosphere feels charged with something beyond just helping her with a bum ankle. As we sit together on the couch, dining in front of the fire, I realize there’s a warm feeling I haven’t felt in a long time with a woman. I pour another bourbon for each of us, despite what she initially said.
When we’re finished eating, I toss another log on the fire. The flames flare and settle into a slow dance of orange and gold. I grab a second blanket, drape it over her legs, then tuck the edge around her.
“Better?”
“Yeah,” she says softly. “You take care of everyone, don’t you?”
I shrug, suddenly too aware of her eyes on me. “Old habits.”
“Your ex-wife must’ve loved that about you.”
The question catches me off guard. “She liked the parts that made her life easier. Not the parts that kept me gone into the mountains half the time.”
I poke the fire and watch sparks rise. She shifts, the blanket slips off. I reach to drape it back over her — innocent, automatic. The mood deepens. You can feel it in the air. I glance at her face, noticing the flames reflecting in her eyes, soft and bright.
“Wade…” Her voice is low, uncertain.
“Yeah?”
“I don’t know what this is,” she says, “but I don’t want to keep pretending it’s nothing.”
For a second, everything in me freezes. The caretaker, the friend, the man trying to do the right thing. Then I see the truth in her face. It’s full of want and trust. I feel it inside me too. All that quiet I’ve been living in starts to sound like a lie.
I reach up, brush a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. “Lilah …” Her name tastes like something dangerous, yet necessary.
Before either of us can think better of it, she pulls my flannel shirt down, and me along with it —just enough for her breath to meet mine. The world narrows to firelight and our heartbeats. And then she kisses me. The kiss is a bold move, but it feels spontaneous, not practiced. It’s just a soft press of want and desire. When she pulls back, her eyes search mine, waiting for permission, for regret, for something I can’t give her.
I exhale, slow. “That’s the kind of line we don’t cross lightly.”
“I know,” she whispers. “But maybe it’s one worth crossing.”
Outside, snow keeps falling. Inside, everything we’ve tried not to feel burns bright as the fire.
Chapter 9
Lilah
The world feels different after you’ve crossed a line you can’t uncross. I can still taste the bourbon and woodsmoke from that kiss. It lingers, somewhere between my throat and my heart, making it impossible to pretend it didn’t happen.
Wade hasn’t said much since. He’s busy — or pretending to be. The clink of dishes, the slow deliberate way he moves, like each motion is a way to keep from looking at me.
I know what that restraint costs him. I felt it.
When he finally does glance over, the firelight catches on the silver in his beard. “You should rest,” he says, voice calm, too calm. “I’ll take the couch.”
I almost laugh. “Wade, you’ve been taking care of me all day. I’m not kicking you out of your own bed.”
