Page 10 of Hitchhiker Mountain Man

We sip in companionable silence, watching the mist rise from the valley below.

"I called Mitchell's again," Slate says after a while. "They’re bringing the parts now."

"So you'll be able to fix your truck today?" I try to keep the disappointment from my voice.

"That's the plan." He glances at me, then back at the view. "Need to get back on the road. Cargo won't deliver itself."

"Right." I nod, staring into my coffee. "Well, you're welcome to shower and have breakfast before you go. I think there are some protein bars in my bag, since cooking is out."

He looks like he might refuse, but then nods. "Thanks."

As we finish our coffee, I become acutely aware of how badly I want him to stay. It's ridiculous—we've known each other forless than twenty-four hours. But something about his presence feels right in a way nothing has in a long time.

When I return with the protein bars, Slate is examining a leak in the cabin's gutter, his practical nature apparently unable to ignore the problem.

"That's going to cause damage if it's not fixed," he says, pointing to where water has been misdirected against the wood.

"I'll mention it to the rental company." I hand him a protein bar.

"Could fix it now if there's a ladder around." He takes a bite, eyeing the gutter with the focus of someone who's used to solving practical problems.

"You don't have to do that," I say.

"Don't mind." He shrugs. "Better than sitting around waiting for Mitchell."

I watch him, struck by how different he is from any man I've known. Bradley would never have noticed the gutter, let alone offered to fix it. He would have called someone, or more likely, handed the problem to his assistant.

"There's a shed behind the cabin," I recall.

We make our way around the cabin, our shoulders occasionally brushing as we navigate the muddy path. Each accidental touch sends a jolt through me.

The shed is unlocked and surprisingly well-stocked. Slate finds a ladder, tools, and even some sealant.

Back at the front of the cabin, he positions the ladder, testing its stability before climbing up. I hold it steady, looking up at him against my better judgment. The position highlights the breadth of his shoulders, the way his faded jeans fit across his thighs, the flex of muscle as he steadies himself.

"Worse than I thought," he calls down, his fingers probing the damaged section. "Water's been getting behind it for a while."

I watch as he carefully removes debris—pine needles, twigs, and wet leaves—that have clogged the channel. His hands move with precise efficiency, each motion purposeful. He tests the brackets holding the gutter to the roof, finding one loose and another completely detached.

"Hand me those screws and the screwdriver?" he calls down.

I gather them and stretch up on tiptoes to pass them to him. Our fingers brush in the exchange, and this time, he pauses, looking down at me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.

"Thanks," he says, his voice rougher than before.

I watch him work, notice the impressive bulge in his pants and look away.

He works methodically, securing the loose bracket first, driving screws with powerful twists of his wrist. Sweat beads slightly on his forehead despite the cool morning air, and he wipes it away with his forearm, leaving a smudge of dirt that somehow makes him even more attractive.

"Now the sealant," he murmurs.

I hand it up without being asked. He applies it generously to the seams where water had been leaking, his fingers smoothing the thick compound into every crack with careful attention.

For some reason watching him smear sealant with his two meaty fingers makes me squeeze my thighs together.

He tests his work by pouring water from his bottle along the gutter, watching as it flows properly down the spout instead of seeping behind.

"That should do it," he says with quiet satisfaction.

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