Page 4 of Snowed-in With The Mountain Man
Even when I wasn't his.
The guilt of that knowledge sits heavy in my chest as I make my way to the kitchen, following the scent of coffee like a lifeline.
He stands at the counter with his back to me, broader than I remember, all lean muscle beneath a worn flannel shirt. His dark hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck, a little too long, just like when we were teenagers. Some things never change.
"Morning," I say, my voice still rough with sleep.
Ridge turns, and the impact of seeing him fully hits me again. Strong jaw covered in stubble. Green eyes that always see too much. The small scar above his right eyebrow from when he fell out of a tree trying to rescue my cat when we were eleven.
"Morning." He slides a steaming mug across the counter toward me. "Black, two sugars. Still take it that way?"
The fact that he remembers makes my throat tighten. Eight years, and he still knows how I take my coffee.
"Perfect." I wrap my hands around the warm ceramic, letting it anchor me to this moment. "Thank you. For everything."
"Don't mention it." He busies himself at the stove where eggs sizzle in a cast iron pan. "Figured you could use a hot breakfast. Hope scrambled is okay."
"More than okay." I settle onto a stool at the counter, watching him cook. His movements are efficient, economical. "I don't remember you being much of a chef."
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Learned a few things. Turns out you can't live on ramen and peanut butter sandwiches forever."
"That's debatable."
The teasing feels like slipping into an old, comfortable sweater. For a moment, we could be teenagers again, hanging out in his parents' kitchen after school.
But we're not. We're adults with eight years of separate lives between us. And I have a daughter sleeping down the hall whose existence changes everything.
Ridge plates the eggs alongside toast and bacon, sliding it in front of me before making a plate for himself. He joins me at the counter rather than suggesting we move to the table. Giving me space. Not crowding. Typical Ridge, always considering my comfort first.
"You're staring," he points out softly.
"Sorry." I look down at my food. "Just... trying to process being here. It doesn't feel real yet."
"For what it's worth, I'm still wrapping my head around it too." He takes a bite of toast. "But I'm glad you called."
"Even though I interrupted your hunt?"
"Even then." His green eyes hold mine. "You and Chellie can stay as long as you need."
And there it is. The unconditional offer that breaks the last of my resolve. Tears well up despite my best efforts to contain them.
"Hey." Ridge's voice softens. "It's okay. Whatever happened, we'll figure it out."
A sob escapes before I can stop it. "I messed up so badly, Ridge."
"Tell me."
So I do. Between bites of food that tastes like sawdust and sips of coffee that scalds my throat, I tell him everything. How I met Rick my junior year of college. How charming and attentive he was at first. The whirlwind romance that swept me off my feet.
I tell him about getting pregnant unexpectedly. How Rick proposed, seeming excited about becoming a family. The gradual change afterward. His growing resentment. The increasing criticisms. How he started drinking more, coming home later.
"He never hit me," I clarify, seeing the dangerous flash in Ridge's eyes. "It wasn't like that. It was... subtler."
Ridge's knuckles whiten around his coffee mug. "Abuse doesn't have to leave bruises to count, Stella."
The quiet certainty in his voice releases something tight in my chest. He believes me. Without question.
"Six months into the pregnancy, he told me fatherhood 'wasn't his vibe.'" I laugh, a brittle sound with no humor. "Just like that. He packed a bag and left. No forwarding address. No support. Nothing."
