Page 18 of Mountain Man's Longing
“Graham?” I call into the empty space, but silence greets me back. He’s not inside.
His truck’s here, though, so he must be nearby. I circle the cabin, noting details I missed last night. The neat stack of firewood under a covered overhang, a full barrel positioned to catch runoff from the roof, everything purposeful and well-maintained.
Then I spot it. A smaller building tucked back into the trees, maybe the equivalent of half a block or so in city distance behind the main cabin. A rhythmic sound, like some sort of humming comes from inside, steady, and methodical.
My pulse kicks up as I follow a well-worn path through the trees. The scent of wood grows stronger with each step. By the time I reach the workshop’s wide open garage door, my heart hammers against my ribs.
Graham stands with his back to me, hunched over a massive workbench. His flannel shirt stretches across his broad shoulders as he works some kind of tool along what looks like a tabletop, each stroke deliberate and controlled. Curls of pale wood spiral away, collecting at his feet like fallen snow.
The sight of him, focused, competent, and creating something beautiful with those strong hands, sends a ripple of heat through my core. I watch him for a minute longer, not wanting to interrupt.
But he must sense me because he freezes mid-stroke, his knuckles going white around the tool’s handle. For a heartbeat he doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe. Then slowly, he turns to face me.
Those storm-gray eyes are carefully neutral, but his jaw tightens when his gaze sweeps over me. The same face that looked at me with such hunger last night now shuttered and distant.
“Brenna.” My name comes out rough.
Last night, he held me as if I were something precious. Earlier today, he shook my hand like a stranger. Now, he’s looking at me as if I’m a problem he doesn’t know how to solve.
I step into the workshop and look around, buying time to find the right words. The space is incredible, with rows of hand tools hanging on a pegboard wall and lumber sorted into piles. A dozen pieces in various states of completion beg for my touch. Graham watches me explore, his arms crossed over his broad chest like armor.
“This is amazing,” I breathe, running my fingers along the edge of a buffet. The wood is satin-smooth under my fingertips, and I picture his hands shaping every curve.
A dining table, with legs that look like tree branches, sits off to the left. Every piece speaks to patience, artistry, the kind of craftsmanship that’s becoming extinct in a world of mass production and instant gratification.
“Just keeping busy,” he mutters, wiping his hands on his jeans.
There’s a copy ofArchitectural Digesttacked up on the wall behind his workbench. When I step closer, my breath catches. The cover features an elegant Park Avenue penthouse. And there, taking up half the page, is a walnut dining table.
“Is this…?” I look from the magazine to Graham, whose jaw has gone tight again.
“One of my pieces? Yeah.”
The casual way he dismisses it makes me want to shake him. This isn’t just furniture; it’s art. Museum-quality craftsmanship featured in one of the most prestigious design magazines in the world. He’s so competent, so…
I shake my head. I’m not surprised that this man, who makes me feel so safe, who pretends to be so gruff but is soft as a feather duvet on the inside, can create these pieces with only his hands. But that’s not why I’m here right now. I’m here for answers.
I turn to face him, squaring my shoulders as if preparing for battle. “Why did you act like you didn’t know me a the brewery? Like last night didn’t happen.”
His hands clench at his sides. “Because it shouldn’t have happened.”
“Why? Because I’m Eric’s daughter?”
Pain flashes across his features, quickly replaced by something that looks like self-loathing. “Eric pulled me out of the darkest period of my life. He’s the closest thing I have to family, and I repaid that trust by taking his daughter to bed. Taking her…”
“My virginity,” I supply, watching his loyalty battle desire in his eyes.
He blows out a long breath.
“You didn’t take anything I didn’t give. Willingly,” I shoot back, stepping closer despite the warning in his eyes. “I chose you.”
“You’re twenty-two years old.” The words come out like an accusation. “You deserve someone better. Should be with someone who…” But he doesn’t finish the thought.
I almost step back. Almost let him retreat into the distance he’s trying to create. But then I remember why I came to Vermont in the first place. To stop being the perfect, polished daughter who never rocks the boat. To find out who I really am when I’m brave enough to lay claim to what I want.
Fury takes over, hot and bright. “For someone who claims to see imperfections as beauty, you’re awfully quick to decide what’s best for me.”
A muscle twitches in his jaw. “You don’t know what you want.”
