Page 12 of Beast of Misty Mountain

As I pass the dairy case, I grab a small chocolate mousse cup and smile to myself.

Just in case.

The screen doorcreaks a little louder than usual as I nudge it open with my hip. My arms are full of grocery bags, but it’s not their weight that makes me pause.

It’s him.

Milo is in the kitchen.

The golden light slants through the windows, catching on the edges of Milo’s broad shoulders. He’s got his sleeves rolled up, forearms exposed, damp hair curling slightly at his temples like he only got out of the shower. There’s a cutting board in front of him and two gleaming trout, already cleaned and ready for grilling.

He looks up, and his eyes meet mine.

For one second, neither of us says anything.

Then he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, “I was up early, so I went out and caught dinner.”

That voice—low, quiet, a little rough—threads through me like silk over sun-warmed skin. I blink, still halfway in the doorway.

“You…caught dinner?”

He nods once. Calm. Understated. “I thought I’d cook for you. You’ve been working a lot, and I thought it would be nice for you.”

The bag in my left hand slips a little. I catch it against my hip and set both bags gently on the counter, though my pulse is doing cartwheels. I saw he was gone when I got up, but I didn’t think anything of it.

But he thought about me. My heart thumps in my chest, and I resist the urge to squirm as my core flames to life.

I push hair behind my ear. “I was going to cook for you.”

His smile lifts the corners of his mouth. “Guess we both had the same idea for your second night off.”

I stare at him for a long moment. The same man I dreamed about last night—his mouth, his body, the way he touched me in that dream with a kind of primal desire I’m not sure I’ve ever felt. I woke up aching for release.

And now he’s standing here, real and shirt-sleeved, preparing dinner for me like us taking turns cooking is normal. Am I dreaming?

“You need help?” I ask, stepping forward.

“Nah, I got it. You have a seat and relax.”

I put away my groceries, then pour each of us a glass of bourbon. Our fingers brush when he takes his glass, and a spark jumps between us.

I sip slowly, letting the warmth spread through me as I watch him cook dinner. Never has a man cooked for me, and as I watch Milo move through his kitchen, the fish sizzling in the frying pan, I don’t think I’ve ever been more attracted to a man. I didn’t know “hot man cooking me dinner” was on my bingo card for “things that make me horny as hell,” but damn if it isn’t.

We decide to eat on the porch.

“This is incredible,” I say between bites. “Seriously.”

He shrugs and drinks from his glass. “Fresh catch.”

I rest my elbow on the arm of my chair and study him. The way he looks in the light of the sunset. The tension that always lingers in his frame, like he’s braced for something he won’t talkabout. I want to ask what he’s thinking, but the quiet between us is good. I don’t want to break the spell.

Milo turns to me, and his gaze drags over me—not in a way that makes me feel small, but in a way that makes me sit up straighter and push my chest out.

We lean closer without realizing it. Our knees touch again, and this time, neither of us pulls back.

He goes quiet, fingers tracing the rim of his glass.

“There’s always noise in my head. But when I fish,” he says, turning to look at the woods, “it’s the only time my head shuts up. Even chopping wood doesn’t work anymore. But out there… I can breathe.”

---