Page 10 of Rescue in Misty Mountain

The question’s gentle, but it lands like a punch. Not because I’m not okay, but because I’m not used to anyone asking.

“I will be,” I say.

I maybe even mean it.

He looks at me again—really looks—and the air between us shifts. It practically sizzles and snaps between us.

He clears his throat. “You heading to town today?”

“Yeah,” I nod. “Assuming my car hasn’t been washed away, I should get it to the mechanic.”

“I can drive you,” he offers. “My truck’s gassed up.”

My eyes widen. “You’d do that?”

“I’m heading in anyway.”

Somehow, I suspect he wasn’t. But I’m not going to argue with him. “Thanks.”

We walk back to the cabin, our shoulders nearly brushing as we fall in step. At the porch, he opens the door for me. Our hands touch as I step through. Barely. But the skin on skin sends a jolt through me. My breath catches.

He doesn’t pull away right away.

I hold my breath until he steps back. I move forward, putting more distance between us. But the moment lingers and follows us inside.

I head for the kitchen, trying to steady myself by keeping busy.

“I can make breakfast,” I offer. “If you have eggs or bread.”

“I have both. In the fridge. Help yourself.”

I do. He disappears down the hall while I get to work.

There are eggs, bread, and some jam labeledBlackberrywith last fall’s date in the fridge. I make scrambled eggs and toast, heating up a pan and getting into the rhythm of something normal.

Gage returns as I’m plating the food. He’s also barefoot now. His hair is damp and a clean T-shirt clings to his chest. I try not to stare.

“Wow. This looks great.” He takes the plate. “You didn’t have to cook for me too.”

“It’s the least I could do.” I take my own plate and settle across from him at the table. “Don’t get used to it, though.”

“I won’t.”

“I’m not that easy.”

His eyes flick to mine, amused. “Believe me, I didn’t think you were.”

We eat mostly in silence, but this time it feels… companionable. Familiar. Comfortable, even. When I reach for the jam, his hand grazes mine again.

Warm. Rough. Intentional? Or was it just a coincidence?

I feel it all the way up my arm.

“This is really good,” I say, gesturing at the jam. “Did you make this?”

He nods. “The berries grow out back. I picked them last summer.”

I shake my head in wonder. “What else do you make? Sourdough from scratch? Beeswax candles?”

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