Page 4 of Brewing with the Mountain Man
Too young for me to be thinking such filthy things about her.
Stop it, Ford.
"I—" Her teeth chatter. "I need to r-radio in."
"After you change." I turn my back, moving to the fireplace to build up the fire. "You can't hold a radio if your fingers turn black and fall off."
I hear her hesitate, then the sound of wet boots squelching toward the bathroom. The door closes with a soft click.
I let out a long breath.
Bear lifts his head from his bed, gives me a look that clearly says he’s thrilled I brought home a new friend, and then settles back down.
“You’re supposed to growl at strangers,” I mutter, stacking kindling harshly. “You’re lucky you’re useful in other ways.”
Bear's tail thumps once.
The fire catches, and I force myself to focus on practical matters. I change out of my own wet clothes, then put the truffles in the refrigerator.
I need to make sure this cabin stays warm.
Then...what? She knows where I live.
My hands still on the firewood.
And she’ll know my name soon enough, and…what I did.
I mean, she's law enforcement. First thing they do is run names, check for priors, assess the threat level. My record isn'tsubtle. Assault and battery. Eighteen months in county, then another six months in state when I couldn't keep my mouth shut to the guards.
Two years of my life gone because I couldn't control my temper.
The bathroom door opens.
I stand slowly, bracing myself before I turn around.
My clothes swallow her whole. The thermal shirt keeps sliding off one shoulder, exposing the curve of her neck. The sleeves are rolled up multiple times, and she's had to cinch the sweatpants tight just to keep them up. Her hair's loose now, falling in damp waves past her shoulders—more auburn than strawberry blonde when it's wet.
She looks absurd. Like a kid playing dress-up in her dad's closet.
But she’s a goddamned beauty.
The thought hits me sideways, unwelcome and dangerous. I shove it down hard, but not before something hot and possessive unfurls in my chest as I realize she’s inmyclothes,myspace.
"Better?" My voice rough.
"Y-yes. Thank you." She's still shivering, but not as violently. Her eyes dart around the cabin, cataloging everything—the brewing equipment along one wall, the shelves of books I've collected over the years, the rifle mounted above the door.
Cop eyes, missing nothing.
"I really need to radio in," she says.
"Fire first." I gesture to the chairs I've pulled close to the hearth. "You're still shivering. Five more minutes won't matter."
"It's protocol?—"
"Sit. Down."
It comes out harder than I mean it to, sharp enough that her spine stiffens and her hand moves instinctively toward her waist—except her belt, along with her gun, is currently hanging over my shower rod.
