Page 5 of Mountain Man's Longing
My stomach clenches tight. But this man won’t immediately place me on a peg in Manhattan’s hierarchy of wealth and privilege the second he hears my last name. Here, I can bemyself rather than a disappointment. Or an asset with a carefully managed reputation.
“Buchanan.”
Sure enough, not a flicker of recognition crosses his face. Rather, the wrinkles release from his brow as he picks his spoon back up. The relief that floods through me is so overwhelming my shoulders drop.
He notices. “Should I know that name? Buchanan?”
“God, I hope not.”
And I find I don’t mind telling him about my family. Especially because there’s no way this mountain of a man, all the way up here in Wildwood, Vermont, has heard of, much less gives a shit about, my family. “My father’s in finance. Old money, very traditional.”
Stepfather, actually, but before I can clarify, he continues, “And your mother?”
“Professional socialite.” The words taste bitter. “An expert at looking perfect and saying the right things.”
His eyebrows lift. “And you?”
I fiddle with my napkin as heat creeps up my neck. “I’m more like the dutiful daughter performing in a play I never auditioned for.”
Understanding flickers in those storm-gray eyes. “People don’t see the real you.”
It’s not a question. He understands. Gets me.
“Never,” I whisper.
“And who are you when you’re not performing?”
No one’s ever cared enough to ask me that. But what do I say? That I don’t know who I am? That I’m here searching out my father to help me figure it out?
When I don’t continue, he dips his chin toward the living room. “See that coffee table?”
My gaze follows his, noticing now, from a distance, how the woodgrain flows like water frozen in time.
“Did you make it?”
A grunt is confirmation, and I can picture him working on it. Those large, capable hands shaping raw timber into something beautiful. The patience it required. The skill. My pulse kicks up at the thought of those hands on me with the same careful attention.
“It’s perfect,” I breathe.
“It’s not.” He points to one corner. “See the knot?”
“Yeah.”
“Most people would have cut around it.”
My gaze flicks back to him. “But you didn’t.”
“The imperfection gives it character.” His voice is quiet, thoughtful, as he watches me intently.
The words make my throat tight. I’ve spent my entire life trying to be perfect, polished, acceptable. But this man sees beauty in flaws. Hell, he’s imperfect with invisible wounds, too. Just like me.
There’s a marked shift in the air.
“You’ll find yourself here, in the woods,” he murmurs, so low I barely hear it.
“I hope so.” I lean closer, emboldened by the heat he can’t hide in those stormy gray eyes. Heat I’m drawn to like a moth to a flame.
He studies my face for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his expression. I think he’s going to offer more wisdom. Or maybe—just maybe—lean forward and kiss me.
