Page 8 of Brewing with the Mountain Man
“It’s impressive,” she says. “This isn’t some survivalist bunker or rough bachelor pad. It’s a home, thoughtfully designed and carefully maintained. I’m amazed you did it all by yourself.”
“Didn’t have much choice.” I take a drink of coffee. “Taught myself from books and trial and error. Learning as I went. The first winter was brutal, but I survived. Made a lot of mistakes.”
She shrugs. “I can’t tell.”
My eyes flick to hers. “You’re not looking close enough.”
She bites her lip and takes a deep breath. “If you say so. But I think it’s gorgeous, Ledger.”
I like hearing her say my name. I just don't know what to do with the pride creeping in at her words.
We finish eating, and the silence settles in again. The storm continues to rage outside. The fire crackles and Bear snores softly.
"You'll take the bed," I say abruptly. "I'll sleep on the couch."
"I can't take your bed?—"
"You can and you will." I stand, and start clearing plates. "It's non-negotiable. You nearly died today. You get the bed."
"You won’t even fit on the couch."
"It’s fine. I've slept in worse places." Prison cots. Cement floors when I pissed off the wrong guard. "Bed's through there. I just put on clean sheets, and it should be warm enough with the fire going. There are extra blankets in the chest by the door."
She stands too, and we're suddenly close. I can smell the honey and chamomile tea on her breath, see the way the firelight catches in her damp hair.
And she’s looking up at me with those blue eyes that see too much.
"Thank you," she says softly.
"Maybe don't cite me in the morning," I manage to say. "That would be rude after I fed you."
She laughs—actually laughs—and the sound does something hazardous to my composure.
"No promises," she says, but she's still smiling.
She heads to the bedroom, Bear trailing after her like her new best friend.
I hear her moving around in there, settling in, and I force myself to stay in the main room. I make up the couch with blankets, bank the fire for the night.
Do anything except think about her.
In my bed.
But when I finally stretch out on the couch, staring at the ceiling while the storm continues outside, she’sallI can think about. How she looked in my clothes. The sound of her laugh. The warmth in her eyes when she said I was multifaceted instead of dangerous.
She'sdangerous all right. Not to my life—but to my carefully constructed walls I've spent years building.
And I have no idea what to do about it.
Except survive the night and hope the storm clears by morning.
Before I do something stupid like start hoping she'll stay.
CHAPTER 3
SADIE
Iwake surrounded by him.
