Page 8 of S'more Mountain Man

I bolted upright, sending the blanket flying. The events of yesterday assembled themselves in my head like a PowerPoint presentation titled "Bad Decisions That Could Have Been Worse." Slide one: getting lost. Slide two: meeting Leif. Slide three: sleeping in his cabin wearing nothing but his flannel shirt and my underwear.

Speaking of which...

I glanced down at myself. The oversized flannel was twisted around my torso, revealing more thigh than I wascomfortable with in the harsh morning light. My bra was still hanging in the bathroom along with my mud-caked clothes. Fantastic.

The cabin was quiet except for the rhythmicthunk-thunk-thunkcoming from outside. I rose from the couch, legs stiff from yesterday's adventure, and padded to the window.

Oh. Oh my.

Leif stood in a patch of sunlight, bare-chested and glistening with sweat as he swung an axe in a perfect arc. Muscles rippled across his back and shoulders with each swing. His jeans hung low on his hips, revealing a strip of tanned skin and the dimples at the base of his spine.Thunk. The axe bit into a log. He yanked it free, positioned another piece of wood.Thunk.

It was like watching a nature documentary on the mating habits of absurdly attractive mountain men. I should have looked away. I didn't.

"You're staring."

I jumped, heat rushing to my face. Leif hadn't even turned around. He justknew, somehow, which was worse.

"I—I wasn't—" I stammered, then stopped. "Okay, I was. But in my defense, there's an entire calendar industry built around what you're doing right now."

He turned then, axe resting on his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. Sweat trickled down his chest, following the lines of muscle that seemed specifically designed to make my mouth go dry. It wasn't fair. No one should look that good while basically doing chores.

"Calendar industry?"

"You know.Hot Lumberjacks of Montana. Rugged Mountain Men and Their Wood. That whole thing." I waveda hand vaguely, pretending I wasn't still staring at his torso. "You could definitely get December. Maybe even the cover. Just sayin’, like if you needed to make a buck or two."

The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. It transformed his face, softening the harsh lines and making him look slightly less menacing.

"Coffee's ready," he said, nodding toward the small kitchen area. "Pot on the stove."

Right. Coffee. Focus on the coffee, not his biceps or pecs or…

"Thanks," I managed, dragging my gaze away from the window. "For the coffee. And shelter. And for not being an axe murderer."

"Day's still young."

I blinked, then realized he was joking. Leif Brannick had made a joke. The apocalypse was clearly upon us.

The coffee, when I poured it, looked like liquid tar and smelled like it could strip paint. I took a tentative sip and nearly choked. It was instant and apparently brewed with the "one scoop per drop" method. Perfect for removing rust or possibly dissolving bodies.

"This is... strong," I said diplomatically, adding more water from the kettle.

"Gets the job done."

The cabin door opened, and Leif entered, bringing with him the scent of fresh-cut wood. Up close, he was even more impressive—all hard planes and sharp angles, like he'd been carved from the mountain itself. He moved to the sink, splashing water on his face and neck, seemingly oblivious to my presence.

Or maybe just used to ignoring women who gawked at him like he was the last piece of chocolate in the box.

I sipped my diluted coffee and tried to remember what normal people talked about. Weather? Sports? The existential dread of finding yourself attracted to a near-stranger who lived in the woods?

"How long have you been making knives?" I asked instead, nodding toward the forge.

He grabbed a towel, wiped his face, and poured his own mug of coffee sludge. "Four years. Started with basic tools, worked my way up."

"And that's... your job now?"

"Part of it."

"The strong, silent thing really works for you, doesn't it?" The words slipped out before I could stop them.

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