Page 13 of A Very Grumpy Mountain Man

I grab my jacket and bag and lock up behind me as we head down the steps toward his SUV. He opens my door like he did on our first date, making warmth bloom in my chest.

“So, what’s the plan for tonight?” I ask as he starts the engine.

He glances at me, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Thought I’d cook for you.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “You cook?”

“I can follow a recipe.”

I laugh, already relaxing. “What’s on the menu?”

“You’ll see.”

That makes me nervous. But also a little giddy.

The drive to his place doesn’t take long, and I find myself watching his hand on the gearshift, close enough to my knee that it makes my skin buzz with awareness.

When we pull into his driveway, I notice the soft glow of light in the windows and the faint flicker of candles through the curtains.

Candles?

He opens my door again and offers me his hand. I take it, letting him help me out. His fingers are warm around mine, and for a second, neither of us lets go.

“This is sweet,” I say as we approach the porch.

“I wanted tonight to feel different.”

I glance up at him, my heart stuttering. “It already does.”

Inside, everything smells amazing, like garlic and something buttery and warm. The kitchen is a little messy—pans on the stove, a cutting board with herbs, a glass of red wine already poured—but it feels homey. Lived in. Comfortable.

“You weren’t kidding,” I say, peeking at the pan on the stove. “You really did cook.”

He lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “I figured you deserved more than takeout.”

I smile as I watch him move around the kitchen, his movements easy and confident. He plates up two servings of what looks like pasta with roasted veggies and fresh bread before carrying them to the small table near the window.

It’s not candlelit, not overly romantic, but it’s still… perfect.

We eat, talk, laugh, and somewhere between my second bite and third glass of wine, I realize that I haven’t felt this at ease with someone in… maybe ever.

He listens when I talk. He watches me like I matter. And when he smiles at me, the rest of the world fades out.

After we clean up dinner—me washing, him drying—I glance out the window and notice how late it’s gotten.

“I should probably head home,” I say reluctantly, drying my hands on the towel.

“I’ll drive you,” he says quickly, like he was hoping I wouldn’t bring it up.

The ride is quiet, but not in a bad way. His hand brushes mine on the center console once, and even though neither of us says anything, the air between us shifts.

When we get to my apartment, he parks in the same spot as last time and gets out to walk me to the door.

“This was nice,” I say, stopping at the top of the steps.

He nods, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Yeah. It was.”

There’s that pause again. That space where something could happen. Where I could invite him in… or let him go.

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