Page 11 of A Mountain Man Walks into a Library

And, for the first time since I pulled into the driveway this afternoon, Remy relaxes. His body gives up the fight as it leans against mine, and he melts back into my chest. When he nods, his swoopy, misbehaving hair brushes the underside of my chin.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “okay.”

After a long, stretched moment, I huff a laugh into his hair. “You weren’t kidding about those peepers.”

Remy laughs. “Theworst, right?”

His voice rumbles through his spine and against my chest.

When I speak next, I let my lips move against the cloud of his hair. “Hey,” I say, “happy birthday, by the way.”

And when Remy smiles, I feel the way his face transforms because of the way it is pressed to my arm.

Chapter 6

Remy

Iwake to an emptybed and the memory of being held in Sam’s strong arms all night.

The last twenty-four hours have been absurd. From the surprise party at work to my parents’ unexpected visit to climbing into bed with a man who has apparently been trying to...towoome for six months—my brain feels like a battered pinata.

When I was in grad school, I dated. I had skipped it entirely as an undergrad, my face always buried too deep in a book to notice anyone around me. But in grad school, I blossomed. Or, notblossomedso much as I sent out tentative tendrils of interest and sometimes they were reciprocated. And it was always fun. A welcome reprieve from coursework and worry. But I’ve never seen anyone for longer than a few weeks. I’ve never introduced anyone to my parents.

And I’ve definitely never heard a lover laughing with my mom in the kitchen while the aroma of French toast drifts through my home.

Even though I want to hide in my room all day like a sulky teenager, the promise of food is a powerful motivator. I drag my stiff body out of my too-small bed. As I get dressed, I ignore the way my second pillow still holds the impression of Samuel Bark’s head.

Out in the kitchen, Sam is standing in front of the stove. He waves a spatula around wildly as he holds court with my mom and dad. He’s got my apron cinched around his waist.

“And then the bear justsat down, in front of the feeder,” Sam says, his dark eyes twinkling, “crossed his damn legs, and had a feast of sunflower seeds while me and my brothers stood there holding armloads of picnic food.”

My dad howls with laughter. Mydad, my quiet, serious lifelong academic of a father. Sam catches my gaze over their heads and gives me a wink. My face flushes.

The rest of the morning passes in a haze of delicately prepared breakfast food and very strong coffee. Dad grills cedar-plank salmon for lunch while Sam regales him with tales of the best and most hidden fishing spots in all of Granite-Glacier, as if my dad has ever held a fishing pole in his life. But judging by his rapt attention, I think he might be considering taking up the hobby.

I watch on, leaning against the picnic table. There’s a terrificrightnessto the moment, Sam and my dad laughing like old friends, my mom seasoning food and fussing over everything. And me, wrapped in the warmth of all thislove.

---