Page 26 of The Mountain Man's Runaway Bride

“Well, don’t you look cozy,” he says, eyes scanning me from bare legs to bare shoulder.

“You left your flannel on the floor. Again.” I wiggle the spatula at him. “This is what happens.”

“Remind me to leave more things unattended.” He nuzzles my neck sending delicious shivers down my spine. “I’m not sure what’s sexier. You wearing my flannel. Or that you’re making pancakes in my flannel.”

I smirk, flipping another pancake. “It could be the smell of bacon. I hear it drives mountain men wild.”

He slides his hands up and down my hips. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

“Mm,” I murmur, leaning back against his chest. “But I made coffee, so that cancels it out.”

He kisses my temple before grabbing a mug, and I try not to melt. Try not to get too used to this. This easy, domestic quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you wonder if you’ve finally exhaled for the first time in weeks.

“I like this,” he says after a minute, sliding into the chair at the kitchen table as I bring him a plate. “You making me breakfast. Wearing flannel. Looking like sin and sunshine.”

“Oh there you are sounding like a caveman. You just needed a little woman cooking for you in the kitchen.”

“I don’t know about that.” He laughs low in his throat. “Maybe I just needed to have you here.”

It’s a perfect thing to say on an already stupidly perfect morning.

I laugh and flip a pancake onto the stack warming in the oven. “Want some eggs too?”

“Always.”

There’s an ease between us this morning. A comfort that feels too fragile to call real, but too strong to ignore. I feel it every time his gaze lingers a little too long. Every time his fingertips brush mine when I hand him a fork.

He leans against the counter beside me, arms crossed, watching me with that unreadable expression he wears so well.

He lifts one brow, that half-smile tilting his mouth. “You’re something else, Quincy.”

Before I can respond, my phone buzzes on the kitchen island.

I wipe my hands on a dish towel and grab it, reading the notification.

Your airline requires immediate confirmation. Please contact customer service.

I frown. “Ugh. My flight got messed up again.”

Knox straightens. “Everything okay?”

“I don’t know. They changed it once already and now it says I need to speak to someone, but I can’t get through to an actual human.”

He holds out a hand. “Want me to try?”

“I’ve already been on hold forever this morning. I think I need to just go down there in person.”

He nods once. “I’ll take you.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I say, feeling suddenly tense.

It’s like all the coziness of our morning has disappeared with the reminder that I have a flight to catch in a few days.

“You came all the way out here. Least I can do is make sure you get home.”

Home. The word feels hollow suddenly.

I swallow hard. “Okay. Sure. Let me get dressed.”

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