Page 4 of Don't Want to Fall
Cinnamon Creek is my home.
I have everything I need.
Now, I just want someone to share it with. Someone who wants to do more than fuck me because I remind her of something called a mountain man.
“There’s just one, Daddy,” Tabby announces, running up to the van with a half-eaten cookie in her hand. Snickerdoodle if I had to guess.
“I know you didn’t run while you were eating that,” I say.
She shakes her head, causing the crumbs at the corners of her mouth to fall.
“Is this my ride?” a female voice asks.
I look up as a woman rounds the van, expecting to see a flock of tourists behind her. Winnie’s very effective in getting guests to show up on time to their booked events. Which is why I’m surprised to see only one now.
One who steals my fucking breath in those tight emerald green leggings that match her eyes. She’s wearing a loose flannel shirt I suspect she bought at the lodge’s gift shop, and it takes incredible effort to force my gaze away from the generous amount of cleavage the tight tank top beneath that flannel shirt is poorly hiding.
“Where’s everyone else?” I finally manage to choke out the question after several seconds of gawking.
“Everyone else who?” the woman repeats, drawing my attention to her lips. Lips that remind me I haven’t kissed a woman in far longer than I care to admit. The minute I realize they just want to use me for sex, I end the date.
Last night was a new record.
The woman didn’t even let me get through my first beer before she propositioned me.
I force myself to look away, confused where the hell that thought of kissing this woman came from. She’s gorgeous, sure. Reddish-auburn hair, long legs, and curves for days. But that doesn’t mean I should be thinking about kissing her.
Or fucking her.
Did I learn nothing last night?
Judging by the flip-flops she thought it would be appropriate to wear on this crisp fall morning in Montana, she’s just another tourist with zero plans to stick around long. Hooking up with her would only leave me frustrated in the end.
“Winnie says it’s only one today, Daddy,” Tabby announces.
“Only one?”
“Is that a problem?” the woman asks.
Our gazes lock for a few beats that seem to stretch. It occurs to me that I could spend hours looking into those emerald eyes and never regret a minute of it. Spending the day with her is going to test my fucking resolve. Thank God Tabby’s here to keep me from doing anything stupid.
“No problem,” I say, nearly choking on the words because an image of those eyes staring up at me as I thrust my cock into her sopping wet channel inmybed has tackled me in a blind spot.
“You okay?” she asks.
I reach inside the van, to the coffee I’ve left in the cup holder. After a solid gulp of the caramelly goodness—and forced thoughts of baseball, muddy trenches, and the mile-long to-do list I have to complete at the cabin to prepare for winter—I finally feel my throat clear up enough to return to normal conversation without a tent pitched in my fucking pants.
“You ready to go…?” I glance at the clipboard, realizing Tabby still possesses the printed itinerary somewhere on theother side of the van. No telling what little creature caught her attention. Probably a chipmunk preparing for winter.
“Devin,” she says, holding out a hand to shake. “Devin Rollins.”
“Flynn Conners.”
When our hands slide together, I feel a jolt of electricity at the contact. The zing travels up my arm and spreads.
Fuck.
Whatisthat?
