Page 12 of A Very Grumpy Mountain Man

She blushes, but she doesn’t argue.

We walk back to my SUV, arms full of fresh produce and baked goods, and I drive her to her apartment across town.

The second I pull into the lot, my jaw tightens. I hate this place. It’s not unsafe exactly, but it’s a tiny old building sandwiched between a tire shop and a bar that blasts music late into the night. The paint’s peeling, the steps creak when you walk on them, and the garbage bin out front smellswrongno matter the time of day.

Sienna unbuckles her seatbelt as I glare out the windshield. My hands clench on the steering wheel. I don’t want her to spend one more night in that shoebox apartment. The idea of her walking those cracked sidewalks alone at night, fumbling with her keys in the dark, makes something primal twist in my gut.

“I hate that you live here,” I say before I can stop myself.

Sienna freezes, halfway to grabbing her tote bag. “Yeah… me too. It’s not the best, but it works for now.”

I want to ask her to move in with me, but I know she’ll turn me down. It’s too soon. But if I have my way, it won’t be my house for much longer. It’ll beours.

I help her carry everything upstairs—dodging a group of loud kids running down the hall and a neighbor’s yapping dog. Her place is neat but cramped, and I hate the thought of her trying to make this shoebox feel like home.

She places the flowers in a chipped mason jar and puts the bread and tomatoes on the counter. “Want to stay for a bit?”

I glance around the tiny space, my chest tightening at the idea of leaving her here. “Actually… I wondered if you want to have dinner with me tonight. At my place.”

Her brows lift. “Another date?”

I smile. “Yeah. If you’re not sick of me yet.”

“I don’t think that’s even possible,” she murmurs.

And just like that, I know I’m done for.

She said yes to another date.

And every part of me—every stubborn, broody, broken piece—already knows: I’m not letting her go.

EIGHT

Sienna

I’ve changedmy outfit three times. Maybe four.

First, it was a dress, then jeans, then leggings, and I’ve now landed on a soft navy sweater and my favorite dark-wash jeans. It feels casual enough to say, “This isn’t a fancy date,” but cute enough that I don’t feel like I’ve given up.

Which, let’s be honest, is the line I’m constantly toeing these days.

I smooth a hand down the front of my sweater and check the mirror one last time. My hair falls in loose waves, and I even put on a little eyeliner. Nothing too bold—enough that I still feel like me, but a version of me that Kye might want to kiss.

The thought makes my heart do that ridiculous little leap again.

I’m not even sure what tonight is supposed to be. He said dinner at his place, which feels kind of date-ish but also not. We already work together. We eat together all the time. But this feels different. Like he’s trying. Like he wants this to be something more.

God, I hope I’m not reading too much into this and setting myself up for heartbreak.

A knock on the door makes me jump, and I nearly trip over my feet as I hurry across the room to answer it.

Kye stands there, looking unfairly good in a fitted black henley and jeans that hug his thighs in a way that should be illegal. His hair is slightly damp, like he recently showered, and his blue eyes crinkle a little when he sees me.

“Hey,” he says softly, his low rumble hitting me somewhere deep.

“Hey,” I manage, returning his smile. “You clean up nice.”

He shrugs. “I try.”

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