Page 11 of Snowed-in With The Mountain Man
The innocent question catches me off guard. "He's our friend, baby. A very good friend who's helping us."
She seems to consider this, head tilted. "I like him. He makes good cakes."
I laugh softly. "Yes, he does."
When Ridge returns, his hair damp with melted snow, cheeks flushed from exertion, I have to physically restrain myself from crossing to him. From pressing my body against his. From discovering if his lips taste as good as they look.
Instead, I busy myself with dinner preparations, hyperaware of him moving around the cabin, securing windows, checking the generator, radiating a competent strength that draws me like a magnet.
By the time we put Chellie to bed, the storm howls in earnest outside, wind rattling the windows, snow piling against the north side of the cabin. The power flickers once, twice, then stabilizes.
"That's going to happen throughout the night," Ridge says, stoking the fire higher. "If it goes out completely, the generator will kick in automatically."
I join him by the hearth, accepting the glass of whiskey he offers. The firelight plays across his features, softening the hard angles of his face. We sit closer than necessary on the couch, thighs almost touching, the air between us charged.
"Are you worried? About being cut off?" he asks, voice low and intimate in the firelit room.
"No." The truth comes easily. "I feel safer here than I have in years."
His expression softens. "Good. That's all I want. For you and Chellie to feel safe."
"It's more than that though, isn't it?" The whiskey emboldens me. "There's something happening here. Between us."
His eyes darken as they drop briefly to my mouth. "Yes."
Just one word, but it changes everything. Acknowledgment. Permission.
I set my glass aside, shifting closer to him on the couch. His arm lifts automatically, making space for me to settle against his side, his warmth enveloping me. For a moment we just sit like that, my head on his shoulder, his hand resting lightly on my waist, both of us aware of the line we're about to cross.
"Stella," he murmurs, voice rough with restraint. "If you don't want this, now's the time to say so."
In answer, I turn my face up to his, hand coming to rest on his chest where I can feel his heart thundering beneath my palm. "I've wanted this since the day I arrived."
The confession hangs between us for one breathless moment. Then he's lowering his head, and I'm rising to meet him, and our lips are a whisper apart when?—
"Mama?" Chellie's tearful voice comes from the hallway. "My ear hurts."
We spring apart like guilty teenagers. Ridge runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply as I cross to my daughter.
"Another earache, baby?" I lift her into my arms, feeling her forehead for fever. "Let's get your medicine."
Ridge is already retrieving it from the cabinet, face carefully composed as he measures the dose into the tiny cup. Our fingers brush as he passes it to me, that same electric current still pulsing between us despite the interruption.
"I'll make some warm compresses," he offers, voice gentle. "That helped last time."
Twenty minutes later, Chellie is settled back in bed, ear pain subsiding. When I return to the great room, Ridge stands at the window, watching the storm rage outside. Snow whips past in horizontal sheets, accumulating visibly with each passing minute.
"We're officially snowed in," he says without turning. "Roads will be completely impassable by morning."
I move to stand beside him, close enough that our arms touch. "How long do you think we'll be cut off?"
"Three days. Maybe four." He looks down at me, firelight reflected in his green eyes. "Just us."
The promise in those two simple words makes my pulse quicken. Three days. Maybe four. Trapped in this cabin with the man I've been fantasizing about since I arrived. The man who held me without question when I needed shelter. The man who looks at my daughter like she's precious.
"Ridge," I start, uncertain how to articulate what I'm feeling.
"We don't have to figure everything out tonight." His hand finds mine, fingers intertwining naturally. "We have time now."
