Page 9 of Brewing with the Mountain Man
Not physically. But Ledger’s scent is everywhere. Like forest dew and campfire smoke, earthy and masculine as it clings to the sheets, the pillows, and the heavy quilt I've burrowed under. Every breath I take is full of him, and I hate how my body responds to it…my belly—and lower—fluttering, my bare skin hypersensitive against the soft flannel sheets.
This is mortifying. I'm an officer, and I'm having absolutely sinful thoughts about a man I was trying to cite yesterday. A man with a criminal record. A man who could probably murder me and hide my body without breaking a sweat.
But he’s also a man who saved me from being swept down the mountain in this storm and freezing to death.
I force myself out of bed before my thoughts can spiral further.
His clothes are way too big on me, the thermal shirt sliding off my shoulder as I move. I tug it back up, but it's a losing battle.
A mirror on the wall has me pausing to try and do something with my hair, which has dried in a tangled nest. I manage to get my fingers through it and braid it again.
The smell of coffee and bacon draws me from the bedroom amid the gentle clatter of cast iron.
The main room is toasty, the fire rebuilt and crackling.
Ledger's standing at the stove with his back to me. He's wearing a dark Henley that stretches across those colossal shoulders, and worn jeans that make me want to slide my hands inside them?—
Nope, not going there, I look away quickly, focusing on Bear instead.
The dog bounds over to greet me, tail wagging so hard his whole back end moves.
I crouch down to give him pets and scratches.
"Morning," Ledger says without turning around. His voice is rough and deep. Sexy-as-hell.Ergh."Mugs are in the cabinet to your left, if you want coffee."
The domesticity of it throws me. Here's this intimidating mountain of a man, spatula in hand, cooking breakfast like it's perfectly normal to have a park ranger wearing his clothes in his kitchen.
I pour myself coffee (black, because I need the jolt). The first sip is heaven, rich and strong, with something that gives it an extra kick of spice.
"Yum," I say, staring into my mug.
He glances over his shoulder, and there's something in his expression—surprise, maybe?—before it shutters again. "Cinnamon. In the grounds."
"You put cinnamon in your coffee?"
"I put cinnamon in a lot of things." He plates the scrambled eggs, bacon, and homemade bread. "Eat. Before it gets cold."
I want to tell him that this is all too…much, but my stomach growls betrayingly. The eggs are fluffy, bacon crispy, and the bread dense and nutty. Even the butter is creamy and fabulous.I’m eating breakfast with the man who yesterday I was chasing through the woods, and it’s…nice. Comfortable.
“You’re a good cook,” I offer, because I feel he needs to know. “All of this tastes great.”
“I’ve been able to practice a lot. Not with guests, of course.” He settles in across from me at the table. “Not much else to do when winter hits besides cook, read, and brew.”
I butter another slice of bread. “I can imagine.”
“Storm's still going strong,” he says, crunching on a slice of bacon. “Weather app says it might last through tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. Another night here. Another night surrounded by…him.
"I should check in again with dispatch."
"I did. Told them you were still sheltered and safe." At my look, he shrugs. "They called on your radio. You were sleeping."
"You answered my radio?"
"Would you prefer I let them think you were dead?"
Fair point, but it still feels odd. Intimate. Like we're playing house when we're really just two strangers stuck in a cabin. “No. Thanks for doing that.”
