Page 5 of How to Love a Mountain Man

“I’m almost done.”

“You’re not safe up there.” My grip tightens on the ladder. “Jesus, will you please stop being so stubborn and listen to me for two seconds?”

A powerful gust catches the tarp she’s trying to secure. It tears free with a sound like a gunshot, whipping away into the darkening sky.

“Well,” I say, watching it disappear, “that’s one way to solve the tarp debate.”

She shoots me a look that could freeze hell and descends the ladder. “I have another one in my car.”

“Absolutely not.” I take a step to block her way. There’s hardly an inch left between us now. “You’re going to get yourself killed, you know that?”

“I don’t need your help, or your commentary.”

“No? Planning to stop the snow with sheer force of will?” Another gust nearly knocks her sideways, and I grab her arm to steady her. The contact sends heat through my body despite the bitter wind. “This storm is coming in faster and harder than anyone predicted. Your cabin isn’t secure, and you can’t stay here.”

“I’m not leaving my property.”

“Yes, you are. You’re staying with me.”

Her eyes go wide. “No way in hell.”

“My place has heat, power, and enough supplies to last a week.” A gust of wind whips between us, carrying the first snowflakes. “Look at it this way—you can either accept my help now, or wait until I have to rescue you in the middle of the night when your roof caves in. Your choice, but option two is going to be way more embarrassing for both of us.”

She opens her mouth, closes it, opens it again. “I could stay in my car.”

“Yeah, that’s not happening.” I pull out my phone to call Mike. “You’re staying where it’s warm.”

An hour later, Mike’s crew has Shae’s construction site as secure as possible. The storm arrives in full force as the crew all drives away, wind howling through the trees. Shae maintains a stony silence as we make our way to my house.

“The guest room’s upstairs,” I tell her as we stamp snow off our shoes in my entryway. The house is livable but not quite finished—the kitchen’s still waiting on cabinet installation, and there are boxes of fixtures and hardware stacked along the walls—but it’s solid and warm. “Bathroom’s got a full shower if you want to warm up. Unless you’d prefer to freeze on principle?”

She stands stiffly in my entryway, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else. “I’m fine. I don’t need to warm up.”

The woman is literally shivering, but I keep my mouth shut.

3

SHAE

My footsteps echo as I pace Julian’s empty guest room, the bare space amplifying every sound. I’ve been at this for forty-five minutes, trapped here instead of protecting my cabin from the storm.

When the pacing doesn’t calm my nerves, I drift to the window. Through curtains of snow, I can just barely make out my cabin’s shape, looking small and exposed. Admittedly, I’m relieved to be able to keep an eye on it from here, but the fact that I can see it at all from his house just proves my point—he built too damn close.

I rest my hand against the cold glass. His house is already weather-tight, with its perfect windows and finished roof. And he just had to build it here, close enough to see from my building site, when he had seven and a half whole acres to choose from. The frustration burns in my chest, mixing with the anxiety of being trapped here, in his space, where everything feels too grand and spacious.

Something clatters downstairs and my shoulders tense. Even up here, I can’t escape Julian’s presence. Can’t escape the fact that he was right about the storm. Can’t escape the way my skinprickles with awareness every time I hear him move downstairs, or how the scent of his cologne still lingers in the air around me, or how much I hate that I notice these things.

I pull out my phone, desperate for good news about the storm, but the forecast only confirms my fears. Heavy snow and high winds expected to continue through the night. I’m going to be stuck here even longer than I thought.

Damn it.

A knock on the door startles me from my thoughts. “Hey,” Julian calls out, his voice carrying through the wood. “I’m making dinner. You should come have some with me.”

“I’m fine,” I call back, even though my stomach growls at the mention of food. I haven’t eaten since early this morning.

“I’m making pasta with my grandmother’s secret sauce recipe. And garlic bread that’s been known to make grown men weep.”

The smell wafts up the stairs, rich and tempting. My mouth waters against my will.

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