Page 8 of Hitchhiker Mountain Man

"And is this real enough for you?" I gesture around at the cabin.

To my surprise, she laughs. "Touché. It's lux-rustic at best. But it's still closer to real than my normal life."

She stretches her legs out toward the fire. The movement causes her sweater to slide further off her shoulder, revealing more smooth skin. My cock strains against my jeans. My mouth goes dry, and I take a larger swallow of whiskey.

"What about you?" she asks. "Do you have someone waiting at home when you're on these long hauls?"

The question is casual, but I don't miss the careful way she watches for my response. I shouldn't care that she's interested. Shouldn't be pleased by the prospect.

"No," I say simply. "Trucking and relationships don't mix well. Learned that the hard way."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's not a life many people would choose." I look directly at her. "Certainly not someone used to comfort and consistency."

She holds my gaze, not backing down. "Maybe some of us find too much consistency suffocating."

The radio crackles with static, then the announcer's voice breaks through with a weather update. The storm's expected to continue through the night, with flooded roads and downed trees reported throughout the county. Not getting out of here anytime soon.

Jordyn rises to turn up the volume, and I allow myself a momentary indulgence—taking in the graceful line of her back, the curve of her hip, the way her honey-blonde hair falls past her shoulders. She's beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache.

When she turns back, she catches me looking. I don't glance away fast enough, and something flares in her eyes—awareness, interest, heat. The cabin suddenly feels one thousand degrees warmer.

"Sounds like we're stuck together until tomorrow at least," she says, voice a touch lower than before.

"Looks that way." My voice sounds rough even to my own ears.

She settles back down, closer to me than before. I can smell her shampoo—something expensive and subtle. Classy.

"We should probably try to get some sleep," I suggest, needing to break the tension before I do something stupid. "Been a long day."

"Probably," she agrees, but makes no move to rise. Instead, she pulls one of the blankets from the couch and wraps it around her shoulders. "But I'm not really tired yet. Are you?"

I'm exhausted, actually. But sleep feels impossible with her sitting so close, firelight dancing across her features, her eyes holding questions I shouldn't answer.

"The guest room is all yours," she continues when I don't respond. "Unless you'd prefer the couch."

"Couch is fine." Closer to the exits. Farther from her bedroom. Safer.

She nods, but looks disappointed. "But before bed… More whiskey?"

I should say no. Should stick to water and clear thinking. "Sure."

She pours another finger into my glass, our fingers brushing. The brief contact sends electricity up my arm. She feels it too—I can tell by the quick intake of breath, the way her eyes dart to mine.

"I'm glad it was you," she says suddenly.

"What was me?"

"Broken down on the side of the road. I'm glad it was you I found and not someone else."

The sincerity in her voice dismantles another layer of my defenses. "You shouldn't pick up strange men on mountain roads. Could be dangerous."

A small smile plays at the corners of her mouth. "Are you dangerous, Slate?"

To her? Absolutely. But not in the way she's thinking.

"Just saying you should be more careful."

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