Page 5 of Hitchhiker Mountain Man

I focus on filling a pot with water. "You can use the bathroom to change, y'know. Better than sitting in wet clothes."

He gives me a look but takes his bag to the bathroom. I quickly change into leggings and an oversized sweater in the second bedroom. My hair is a disaster without makeup, but somehow I can't bring myself to care. It's liberating after a lifetime of always being "presentable."

When I return, Slate is wearing a dry flannel shirt and jeans, looking less drenched but still uncomfortable. He hangs up the phone.

"Any luck?" I ask, checking the water.

"Got through to Mitchell's Auto, but they can't get a tow truck up here until the storm passes. Roads are already flooding."

"So you're definitely staying the night," I say, trying to keep my tone neutral despite the flutter in my stomach.

He rubs the back of his neck and sighs. "Looks that way."

"Well, I promise not to bite," I smile. "Though I can't promise the same for whatever wildlife might be outside."

This earns me the closest thing to a smile I've seen from him—just a slight softening around his eyes, but I count it as a victory.

The cabin feels smaller with him in it. His presence seems to fill the space, making me hyper-aware of where he is. When he moves to add another log to the fire, I track his progress, noting how his shirt stretches across his back.

I shouldn't find him attractive. He's nothing like the polished men my mother would approve of. Nothing like Bradley with his perfect teeth and manicured hands. Slate is all rough edges and scowls, with calloused palms and stubble on his jaw.

Yet every time he moves, my eyes follow him. Every time he speaks, that deep voice sends heat through my core.

"Need help?" he asks gruffly, nodding toward the boiling water.

"Sure. You can set the table if you want."

He moves with surprising grace, finding plates, glasses, and utensils without asking. I add pasta to the water and stir the sauce, trying to ignore how domestic this feels.

"So," I say, "how long have you been a trucker?"

"Fifteen years." He places plates on the small dining table by the window.

"Do you like it?"

He considers the question seriously. "Most days. Freedom of the open road. No boss looking over my shoulder. Different view every day." He pauses. "Some days it gets lonely."

This small admission feels like a gift. "I can imagine. All those miles with just your thoughts for company."

"Better than fake conversation." He gives me a pointed look that makes me laugh.

"Fair enough. But this doesn't count as fake conversation, does it? I'm genuinely curious."

Something shifts in his expression. "No, this isn't fake."

We sit across from each other, the storm providing background music to our meal. I'm suddenly conscious of my table manners, wondering why I care what this grumpy trucker thinks of how I twirl pasta.

"So what's your story?" he asks unexpectedly. "What brings a... woman like you up to a cabin alone?"

"A woman like me?" I raise an eyebrow. "What exactly does that mean?"

He doesn't back down. "Someone who clearly comes from money. Someone used to cities and comfort, not mountain roads and isolation."

"Maybe I wanted a change from all that. Maybe I'm tired of being 'someone like me.'"

His blue eyes study me, and I force myself not to squirm under his gaze. "Running from something?" he asks.

"Isn't everyone?" I counter, then sigh. "I broke up with my boyfriend a few weeks ago. Bradley. We'd been together for two years, and everyone expected us to get married. It was all very... appropriate."

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