Page 9 of Single-Dad: The Mountain Man

And what about outside my bedroom last night? I imagined him outside my window. But when I went to check there was no one there.

Thank heavens for small mercies.

If he’d heard me calling his name last night, I swear my whole universe would’ve imploded. But he didn’t so life can go on as usual.

I try hard not to think of his big, rough hands that work so gently on his daughter’s hair. It’s hard to imagine him to be the dark and brooding ex-fighting champion when he’s around his children.

I find Daddy Shane even hotter.

I’ve watched him build blankets and pillow forts, scavenger hunting and painting with them. If there were a single-dad award, he’d get my vote. I’d be his first vote.

He was my first kiss. Boy, can he kiss. Shane kisses like a man out to conquer and that’s what he did. His mouth dominated me and claimed me.

Then he withdrew, leaving me in ruins.

When the session ends and my students are gone, my errant attention drifts to him and our eyes meet. That’s all it takes, a single glance for him to trap me, again.

“Will you be here when we get back?” Dylan asks.

I’m momentarily rendered speechless and it takes a few seconds to free myself. “I would have moved back into my apartment by then, I’m afraid. But I’ll come and visit.”

“Don’t you want to stay?” he asks.

Dylan and Charlotte have the same dark hair and blue eyes as their father.

“Of course I do,” I say, bringing my mat over to their spot under the tree and laying it out.

“Willow will find more students to teach if she moves into town,” Charlotte says matter-of-factly. “She can’t live up here forever unless she marries Dad.”

I don’t dare look at Shane because not only is my face beet red, but I don’t want him to bear witness to my little-kid hopes and dreams that are written on my face right now.

“That’s enough,” he says. “You guys get ready now, your grandparents will be here soon.”

I release a sigh when they skip back into the cabin to grab their bags, but the tension doesn’t let up because we’re alone.

I opt for humor to lighten the mood.

“I bet you’ll be glad to be rid of me. You won’t have to put up with me doing weird poses at all hours of the day.” I grin.

“I don’t mind. I like watching—” he stops, catching himself, “—you’re a wonderful teacher.”

I can’t dull the euphoric surge that I feel on my cheeks, from his compliment.

“Are you going to take a class?”

“Are you going to start charging for lessons?”

It’s not the first time he’s broached the topic. But I get satisfaction from helping people ease into poses and flow through yoga.

“You’re dodging the question,” I say. “Why won’t you take a class? Afraid?”

His frown is sexy.

“Are you forgetting I was an MMA champion?” he asks. “Years of grueling fight camps have prepared me for anything.”

“I don’t know, my classes get pretty intense,” I say, smugly. “I’ll go easy on you.”

“Then, in that case, I might take you up on your offer.”

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