Page 16 of Haunting the Mountain Man
I adjust myself as I stand and mutter, “You have no idea.”
We step off the trailer, the crowd swallowing us back into the glow of string lights and the haunting hum of a fiddle. Sabrina is still smirking like she’s won, hugging the plush cat to her chest, but when the noise dips and the festival bustle thins near the edge of the field, she slows.
“Hey,” she says softly, tugging me to a stop near a stall offering face paint. Her voice loses the sharp, teasing edge, it’s warmer, tinged with uncertainty. “Thanks for bringing me out tonight.”
I study her face, the way her dark hair shines under the lanterns, the faint flush on her cheeks.
“My girl works hard,” I say brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “You deserve to be spoiled.”
Her smile flickers, a crack in the bravado. For once she doesn’t try to fill the silence with sass. She just stands there, close enough that the cool air can’t cut through the warmth radiating off her.
I want to kiss her. Want to do a lot more than kiss her, actually. But I remember how quickly we both lost our heads the last time and I don’t trust myself, or her, to behave. Not even in public.
So instead, I lift her hand and brush a kiss across her knuckles. Old-fashioned. Maybe stupid. But it makes her breath catch and her lashes lower like I’ve given her something no one else ever has. Another first. After that first kiss, I intend to be all her firsts. And lasts. First and last kiss. First and last lover. And everything in between.
“Cole,” she whispers, her voice trembling.
All she says is my name, but it’s loaded with everything she can’t say yet. The attraction blooming between us is like a fast-growing vine, tangling us in passion, and choking us with need. And the softer, more intimate emotion unfurling just as quickly. The one I’ve felt since the first moment I saw her. She won’t sayit. Not yet. But it’s there in her eyes, in the very depths of her soul when she looks at me.
For a heartbeat we stand there, lost in it. Then she clears her throat, her hand slips out of mine, but she doesn’t break eye contact.
“Fine. You win this round.” Her smirk returns, though it’s softer this time. “But tomorrow? I’m upping my game.”
“I’ll be ready.”
Sabrina
“This is a trap.”
I glare at Cole as we park in front of Bellamy’s Bridal. Crescent Ridge has enough weddings to support a bridal boutique, but no one’s interested in running one. I closed the bookstore early and Cole only worked half a shift so he could drive me down the mountain to Bramble. All to pick out a wedding dress.
“White dresses, peppy salesladies, pastel wallpaper. I’m about to be buried alive in chiffon.”
Cole grins, annoyingly smug, and pushes the glass door open wider for me in invitation.
“You want to get married on the 13th. That means today we need to pick out a dress.”
“I was thinking thrift store. Maybe a dramatic cloak. Definitely not…” my voice trails off as I gesture at the rack of gowns that were designed with princesses in mind. “This.”
The saleslady appears like a fairy godmother hopped up on espresso. She’s eager, chipper, and from her white blouse, black pencil skirt, and chunky necklace, my antithesis.
“Congratulations! Are we looking for a wedding dress?”
“Depends,” I say. “Do you have anything in black?”
Her face freezes in horror.
“Black?”
Cole’s arm slides around my waist.
“She’s got a plan to dye it. Don’t worry. Whatever’s white now won’t stay white for long.”
I nod solemnly.
“Think Addams Family chic. Morticia if she got day-drunk on champagne.”
The poor woman blinks like she’s trying to compute sacrilege, but then she rallies.
