Page 7 of How to Love a Mountain Man

A small, relieved laugh escapes me. After an awkward beat, I add, “Thanks for bandaging my foot.”

“Hey, that’s what neighbors are for, right?”

His smile fades into something more serious as our eyes meet. “Look, maybe we could start fresh?” He holds out his hand. “Clean slate?”

I stare at his offered hand, my throat tight. Part of me wants to explain—about how noises that don’t bother other people feel like physical pressure against my skin, how social situations leave me drained for days, how I need routines and quiet just to function. But what would be the point? Even with a clean slate, I’d still be me. I’d still be the girl who gets overwhelmed by casual conversation, who needs to rehearse basic interactions in my head, who struggles with the simplest things.

The silence stretches too long. Julian’s hand drops, and something in his expression shifts.

“Well,” he says, pushing to his feet, “let’s just take it a day at a time, huh?”

He extends his hand again, this time to help me up. I take it, meaning to use it for balance, but he pulls as I push myself up and suddenly I’m stumbling forward. My chest collides with his, his other hand catching my elbow to steady me. For one suspended moment, I’m surrounded by his warmth, his cologne, the solid presence of him.

“Careful,” he murmurs, his breath stirring my hair.

I step back too quickly, my cheeks burning. “Sorry. Again.”

He leads the way out of the bathroom, and I try to focus on my throbbing foot instead of the lingering sensation of his chest against mine. I can’t be friends with Julian. There are too many reasons why not—I’m too awkward, he’s too…everything. Beingfriends with my closest neighbor is the exact opposite of the solitude I came here for.

It’s better to keep my distance. Keep to my original plan. Build my cabin, live my quiet life, and pretend I can’t see his house through the trees.

4

JULIAN

“Stay there,” I tell Shae, watching her shift restlessly in the kitchen doorway. “I’ll clean up the mess.”

“I’ll help,” she says. “I’m the one who caused it.”

I can’t believe the stubborn logic of this woman. Here she is, injured and stuck in my house during a storm, and she’s worried about helping clean up. I grab paper towels from the counter, shaking my head. “Shae. Seriously. Take it easy. I’ve got it.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but I point to one of the bar stools at my kitchen island. Her shoulders slump a little as she gives in, limping over to perch on the edge of the seat.

I make quick work of the clean-up, sweeping ceramic shards into the dustpan and blotting at the bloodstain until it fades from the unfinished floor. When I’m satisfied there’s no remaining sharp edges for her to step on, I move to the stove where my grandmother’s sauce still simmers. The rich aroma of tomatoes and herbs fills my nose as I plate our dinner.

I grab both plates and nod toward the great room. “Come on. I want to test out the fireplace while we eat.”

Within minutes, I’ve built up a fire in the hearth, flames crackling behind the iron grate and casting a warm glow across the room. We sit on the floor a few feet from the fireplace.

“This is really tasty.” She takes another bite of pasta. “Is there nutmeg in the sauce?”

I smile. “Sorry, that information is classified. The recipe’s strictly for my future children. Family tradition.”

She lets out a small laugh, then goes quiet, clearly unsure what to say next. She takes a bite of garlic bread. “This is really good, too. Very…garlicky.” Her eyes widen a little. “I mean, that’s a good thing. I like garlic.”

“Yeah, me too.” I flash her a grin. “Guaranteed romance killer, though, right?”

Color floods her cheeks, and I decide to change the subject. “So, Shae. How long are you going to be mad at me for building my house where I did?”

She stares into the fire for a long moment. “It’s your property. You had the right to build wherever you wanted.”

“But?”

“But I moved here for solitude.”

I study her profile in the firelight. Christ, she’s so pretty. “Why’s solitude so important to you?”

She shifts uncomfortably, and I expect her to dodge the question. But then she says, quietly, “Being around people is exhausting. Every interaction feels like a test that I always fail.”

---