Page 5 of Burning for the Mountain Man
The one I couldn’t stop thinking about.
The lot was jammed, but I snagged a space right beside a dusty work truck with a ladder on the back and the wordsReliable Repairstenciled across the side. Reliable Repair. Thatsounded like a business name a certain mountain handyman might use.
My heart jumped into double-time. He could be anywhere. The person who drove that truck might already be asleep in their room, remote in hand, blissfully unaware that some random girl in the parking lot was spiraling over a logo.
Still, thethump-thumpof my pulse didn’t slow as I pushed through the front doors.
And stopped dead.
There he was.
Wilder crouched in front of the stone fireplace, tools spread around him like surgical instruments. The fire crackled, casting a soft gold halo over his face, highlighting the furrow between his brows. He looked focused. Frustrated. Unfairly good.
I should’ve gone straight upstairs. Pretended I didn’t see him. Instead, my feet betrayed me, carrying me right across the lobby before my brain could object.
“Having trouble?” I asked.
Instant regret. Of course, he was having trouble. The man was elbow-deep in a fireplace, scowling like he was in a standoff with it.
He looked up, dark eyes flickering with something—surprise, maybe? Or was that a flash of pleasure before he masked it behind that stoic expression?
“Can’t find a damn thing wrong with it,” he muttered, turning back to the flames. “Bobbi says it’s not heating the lobby properly, but it’s fine.”
I glanced around the cozy space. The fire was roaring, heat rolling through the room like a thick blanket. “Feels pretty toasty to me.”
“That’s what I told her.” He sat back on his heels, raking a hand through his dark hair. “But she insists something’s off.”
There was a note in his tone—resignation laced with amusement—that made it click. He knew. And now, so did I.
“Bobbi seems like the type who might…meddle,” I said.
Wilder’s mouth curved, just barely. “That’s one word for it.”
“How long have you been working on it?”
“Hour and a half.” He began gathering his tools with brisk, practiced movements. “Long enough to confirm there’s nothing wrong with this fireplace except Bobbi’s imagination.”
I bit back a smile. Poor guy—set up by a matchmaker with a silver bob and bright green glasses. The question was, did he mind?
“Well,” I said, dropping into one of the overstuffed chairs near the hearth, “since you’re here, and I’m here, and the fire’s working perfectly…want some company?”
He froze mid-motion, wrench suspended in the air. “You don’t have to?—”
“I know I don’t have to.” I tucked my legs under me, forcing my voice to stay light even as my pulse raced. “I want to. Unless you’d rather be alone.”
He stared at me for a long, unreadable beat. I could almost see the tug-of-war behind his eyes—the part of him that wanted to stay versus the part that always kept its distance.
Finally, he lowered the wrench. “I assume you went to dinner with your friend and her new guy?”
Relief unfurled in my chest. He was staying.
“Yep. You were right about Blade. He’s perfect for Sienna.”
“But?” His voice was soft, but sharp. He could read a person in seconds.
I sighed. “No but. They’re happy—really happy. It’s just…” I trailed off, unsure how to explain the ache beneath my ribs.
“Just what?”
