Page 25 of My Mountain Man Stalker
We work well together. We don’t bump, don’t trip; we pass knives handle-first and grab the same spice at the same time.Her knuckles brush mine. I pretend it doesn’t register. She pretends she believes me.
“Tell me something true,” she says around the steam.
“I prefer cast iron to nonstick,” I say.
She levels me a look. “About you.”
I flip the venison. “I don’t like waking up alone anymore.”
Silence. Then softer, “You don’t have to.”
The meat sears, onions go sweet, potatoes crisp at the edges. I plate generous, because she forgets to eat when she’s anxious and I’m not interested in watching her shake. We sit at the small table. She tucks one foot up on the chair and steals a potato from my plate without asking.
I let her.
“Something’s on your mind,” she says after the first bite. “Besides the usual doom.”
“Doom is a constant.”
“So… extra doom.”
I fork a piece of venison. Chew. Swallow. Meet her eyes.
“Liam was seen,” I say. “Two towns over.”
Her breath stills. Then she sets the fork down and lifts her chin like she refuses to flinch. “Alone?”
“Looked like it. Rental SUV. Keeping his head down.”
“And?”
“Three girls are missing from around there.” I don’t soften it. She doesn’t need porcelain versions of the truth. “Two filed reports. One hasn’t.”
The bravado drains out of her face, replaced by the thing that made her take the card in the first place—anger with a backbone. “He’s still doing it.”
“He never stopped,” I say. “Men like him escalate when they’re cornered.”
Her eyes shine, but they don’t spill. “We have to stop him.”
“We will.”
“How?”
“By staying smart. By not giving him what he wants. By letting my people run the net while I hold the line here.” I lean in. “He’s counting on you to bolt. Or to break.”
She bristles. “I’m not running again.”
“I know.” I let a corner of my mouth tip. “You’re stubborn.”
“Says the man who sleeps on hardwood to avoid me.”
“That’s survival,” I say, deadpan.
She kicks my shin, gentle enough to be flirting, and takes another bite.
Between mouthfuls she asks, “Who are your ‘people’?”
“Men who don’t miss,” I say. “Nate. Micah. A medic we call Doc.”
