Page 10 of Mountain Man's Longing
“Keeps to himself mostly, but—” Mia stops, pressing her lips together as if she’s caught herself about to say something she shouldn’t.
“But what?” I prompt.
She shakes her head with a small smile, busying herself wiping down the already clean counter. “Nothing, honey. Just… Well, small towns, you know? Everyone’s connected somehow.” She looks up at me again, that curious expression returning. “You know both of them?”
My cheeks warm. “I do, or at least, I hope to…soon.”
“Well, you tell them both Mia says hi.”
I nod, sliding off the stool, and heading out the door. Just down Main Street. It’s not far, but I’m grateful for the walk. For the crisp fall air. I pass Wildwood Brewing with its rustic wooden sign. Past a small bookstore and a vintage clothing shop that looks as if it hasn’t changed since the seventies. The walk givesme time to rehearse what I’ll say, though I’ve waited for this moment for years.
The outfitters shop sits at the corner, its windows filled with camping gear and hiking boots. Through the glass, I spot a small counter near the registers where a man in a red flannel shirt sits hunched, cleaning a fishing reel.
A man with dark hair and broad shoulders.
Time stops. My chest constricts so tightly I can barely draw breath, and tears I didn’t expect blur my vision. Every childhood birthday wish, every unanswered question, every fight with my stepfather—it all led to this moment. My hands shake as I reach for the door, twenty-two years of longing and hope colliding in my throat.
I squeeze the metal bar and pull open the door, bells jingling overhead as I enter. The man at the counter looks up, and familiar green eyes widen with something that goes far deeper than recognition.
He knows. Somehow, he knows exactly who I am.
“Can I help you?” His rumbling baritone is cautious, uncertain as he slowly rises.
My stomach rolls, but I manage to sound calm. “My name is Brenna Buchanan. I think you knew my mother, Caroline?”
The color drains from his face, and his jaw tightens. Then his expression shifts, cycling from regret to something that looks like wonder.
“Hell,” he breathes, running a hand through his thick hair. “Twenty-two years. You have her same innocence, but those eyes…” His voice catches. “Those are mine.”
Tears sting the backs of my eyes, but I blink them away. I’m finally face to face with the man whose absence shaped my entire childhood. The man whose existence my mother treated like a shameful secret, though I always sensed there was more to the story.
And despite everything—the nerves, the uncertainty, the way my heart feels as if it might shatter—my shoulders drop, and I smile.
Chapter seven
Graham | An hour ago
By now, the walnut planks spread across my workbench should be the elegant curves of the buffet table commissioned for a fancy dining room. Instead, I’ve stared at them for the past hour.
My hands idle while my mind replays every minute of last night. The way Brenna felt beneath me, her soft curves yielding to my touch, her skin like silk under my calloused palms. The hitch in her breathing when I traced the line of her collarbone. How she arched into me with complete trust.
But especially, the sound she made when I first pushed inside her. The way her fingers dug into my shoulders until the grip eased and turned into a caress.
She’d trusted me with something so precious, so irreplaceable. Her innocence. The knowledge that no other man had ever seen her come apart the way she did in my arms, trembling and beautiful and completely mine for those perfect moments. It still hits me hard. Even now.
But last night, when I realized what I’d just done, when I understood this stunning, brave woman had chosen me forher first… Hell, I nearly lost it. The shock rolled through me like a grenade blast, threatening to steal my breath, my focus, everything. But she deserved better than my panic. She deserved reverence, patience, worship.
So I buried the disbelief and pulled myself together and let instinct take over. Made sure every touch was gentle, every movement showed her how a man should treat a woman who’s cherished. Because she is.
I can’t imagine how a girl as beautiful and spirited as Brenna is a virgin, but now, the thought of her with another man turns my stomach. And I can’t help but imagine the things I could show her, the pleasure I could bring her, the techniques I could teach her.
Which is why the commissioned buffet sits unfinished. And why I can’t bring myself to care. Not when the memory of Brenna’s green eyes, wide with trust and desire, keeps surfacing in my mind.
I’ve been in here since dawn, trying to lose myself in the familiar rhythm of wood and blade. But every stroke of the chisel reminds me of touching her. Every curve I shape echoes the memory of her hips, her waist, the perfect arch of her back.
Christ, I’m losing my mind.
Something tells me she’s up. Call it instinct honed by years of reading body language and terrain, or maybe, I’m just that attuned to her already. Either way, I’ve given her space this morning, slipped out at first light to clear that damn tree limb and restore power to her cabin. But it’s been long enough. I need to see her. Want to make love to her again. And again.
