Page 14 of Mountain Mens' Curvy Obsession

But he doesn’t leave my side. I feel tiny, sitting next to him. He’s big, packed with muscles underneath that sweater. The ease with which he and his brother can lift me up and carry me around makes me feel like I’m light as a feather, but every time I look at myself in the mirror, I feel… uneasy.

“Anya, for what it’s worth, Icantell you one thing.”

“What’s that?” I mutter, slightly pouting as I stare at my feet.

“You are the strongest and most resilient woman I have ever met,” Booker says. “You’ve been through a lot, and by some miracle, you’re still kicking and breathing. This accident? It’s just another bump in the road for you. And I know you’ll get over it.”

I give him a curious look. “What am I like?”

“Good question,” he laughs lightly, and I love how his eyes shine as he remembers things I cannot. “I can answer that. Let’s see… You’re sensitive.”

“Oh.”

“Not in a bad way. You’ve got an artist’s soul. A keen eye for detail. You see beauty even where others only see misery. You were always like that, even when you were little. You were always looking for the bright side.”

“You’ve known me since I was a kid, right. You mentioned that,” I mumble, trying to remember him. But every time I knock on that door, no one answers, and it makes me wince in pain.

Booker stretches an arm out and wraps it around my waist. “You’re stubborn as a mule. Your stubbornness would often get you in trouble.”

“Okay, that feels right,” I chuckle, softening against his hard frame. “Sensitive, artsy, stubborn. What else?”

“Like I said, resilient. Should the apocalypse swallow this whole planet, I know you and the cockroaches are going to survive.”

That makes me laugh. “So, I’m kind of a badass, eh?”

“In my book? For sure,” he says, his eyes searching my face. “I’m glad you’re here, despite the circumstances.”

I don’t know what to say. My words have left me, replaced by the intensity of the way he makes me feel. The comfort, the reassurance, this crazy idea that I’m welcome and wanted here, regardless of how our paths crossed.

“I’m so lost,” I confess, on the verge of tears.

“You’re never lost for too long,” Booker says, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. My gaze drops, mesmerized by the shape of his lips, framed by a thickening brown beard with specks of gold.

Either he can read my mind or he’s acting on his own instincts.

But he kisses me.

It’s a short and sweet kiss, yet so telling, so revealing.

He smells of burnt wood and a tobacco-infused cologne that’s absolutely inebriating in such close proximity. Without realizing it, I lean into him and deepen the kiss, my lips parting to welcome his tongue. I taste the hint of coffee and lose myself in the moment.

His breath thickens, his hand working its way up my side; his touch gentle yet decisive on its quest.

As he reaches the side of my breast, however, I pause and pull back. “I’m so sorry,” I gasp.

“I should be the one to apologize, behaving like this,” Booker replies, putting a bit more distance between us. But I feel cold without him. “Anya, it’s not your fault.”

“It is,” I insist, my face burning red with shame. “I… It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s… Oh, God!” I cover my face with both hands, unable to look him in the eyes.

Yet Booker sits beside me, calm and composed, waiting for me to blurt out the unfathomable as I wrestle with my own emotions.

“Anya, talk to me,” he says gently.

I decide to go for complete transparency. “I kissed your brother. Chance. I kissed Chance. I’m sorry.”

A moment passes in the heaviest, most uncomfortable silence. He’s going to walk out of here any minute now.

“Did you like it?” he asks, but he doesn’t sound upset.

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