Page 14 of Hitchhiker Mountain Man

But when I close the hood and turn to face her, something in her expression makes leaving feel impossible.

"All fixed?" she asks.

"Good as new."

"So you're heading out." It's not quite a question.

I wipe my hands on a rag, wrestling with what I want versus what I should do. "That's the plan."

Jordyn nods, disappointment flashing across her face before she hides it behind a smile. "Well, it was nice meeting you, Slate. Safe travels."

She turns to head back to her SUV, and I watch her go, something urgent building in my chest. This is the moment—the clean break, the return to normalcy, the sensible choice.

"Jordyn."

She stops, looking back. "Yes?"

"It's getting late," I hear myself saying. "Probably not smart to start a long haul at this hour. Could call my client, let them know I'll be there first thing tomorrow instead."

Hope lights her eyes. "You could do that?"

"Already pushed the deadline," I admit. "One more night won't make much difference."

It's a rationalization. We both know it. But the smile that breaks across her face makes the potential fallout seem worth it.

"I was going to make dinner," she says. "Nothing fancy, but there's plenty for two."

One more night. Just a few more hours in her company before reality reclaims us both. It's a dangerous indulgence, but as I follow her back to the SUV, I can't bring myself to regret the decision.

Tomorrow I'll leave. Tomorrow I'll be sensible.

Tonight, I'm allowing myself this one deviation from the solitary path I've chosen. And the warmth in my chest as Jordyn smiles at me feels suspiciously like something I've been avoiding for years.

seven

Jordyn

Ipourwineforus both. Slate sits across the table, our empty plates between us. The pasta turned out well, and his appreciative look when he first tasted it made me strangely proud.

"Where did you learn to cook?" he asks, more relaxed than I've seen him.

"Cooking classes," I admit with a laugh. "My mother insisted. Said even if I never needed to cook for myself, I should know how to direct the staff properly."

He shakes his head with a half-smile. "Different worlds."

"Very different," I agree. "But I'm finding I prefer this one."

His eyes meet mine over his glass, and the intensity there makes my breath catch. We've been dancing around this all evening—the attraction since that morning kiss, his departure tomorrow, the question of what happens tonight.

"Should we move to the couch?" I suggest, pointing to the fireplace. "More comfortable than these chairs."

He nods and rises. For such a large man, he moves with surprising control.

I take our glasses while he brings the wine bottle, and we settle on the couch—close, but not touching. The space between us feels charged.

"Tell me something real about yourself," I say. "Something you don't tell most people."

He considers this. "I write poetry. Sometimes. When I'm on long hauls and the road gets too quiet."

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