Page 18 of Hitchhiker Mountain Man

"You should get that," Jordyn says softly. "Could be important."

Reluctantly, I disentangle myself from her and reach for the phone. Three messages from my client. The delivery is now critically late. The comfortable bubble we've created is about to burst.

I look back at Jordyn, still wrapped in the sheets, hair tousled from my hands, lips swollen from my kisses. Something twists in my chest at the sight. This wasn't supposed to happen. She wasn't supposed to matter.

"Bad news?" she asks, reading my expression.

"Client's pissed about the delay."

She nods, disappointment evident despite her attempt to hide it. "So you need to go."

It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "Yeah. I should get going."

nine

Jordyn

Themorningsunglintsoff Eleanor's polished chrome as Slate loads his duffel bag into the cab. I stand on the cabin porch, arms wrapped around myself despite the warmth of the day, watching him prepare to leave. Watching the routine of a man who's done this hundreds of times before.

But this time is different. I can see it in the tension of his shoulders, the way he keeps glancing back at the cabin. At me.

Two days. That's all it's been since I found him stranded on the side of the road, scowling at his truck in the rain. Three days that somehow feel like much longer.

"That's everything," he says, closing the passenger door and turning to face me.

I nod, not trusting my voice. What is there to say? "Have a nice life?" "Thanks for the memories?" Nothing seems adequate for what's passed between us.

"I should hit the road. Already behind schedule." He shifts his weight, keys jingling in his hand.

"Of course," I manage. "You have a schedule to keep."

He takes a step toward me, then stops, caught between coming and going. I've never seen him so uncertain.

"Jordyn—" he starts, then stops, running a hand through his hair. "This isn't how I expected this trip to go."

I laugh softly, the sound slightly strained. "Me neither. I came up here looking for solitude and self-discovery."

"Found trouble instead," he says, the corner of his mouth lifting in that almost-smile that makes my heart ache.

"The best kind of trouble." I take a step down from the porch, closing some of the distance between us. "I don't regret it, Slate. Not a single moment."

His blue eyes search mine, looking for something. Sincerity, maybe. Or just memorizing my face the way I'm memorizing his.

"I need to ask you something," he says finally. "And it's probably crazy."

My pulse quickens. "I like crazy. Ask me."

He takes a deep breath, glancing at his truck and then back to me. "How long is your vacation, again?"

"Two weeks," I answer, confused by the question. "Well, a week and a half now."

He nods, seemingly coming to a decision. "Come with me."

The words hang in the air between us, unexpected and thrilling.

"What?" I'm not sure I've heard him correctly.

"Come with me," he repeats, more firmly this time. "On the road. For your vacation. See what it's like, the life I lead."

---