Page 38 of Orphan Girl's Mountain Men

In the rare moments when he hasn't been frowning at me, criticizing me, or insulting me, he's actually been good-humored, and it's an absolute joy to see him with his daughter. I watched them during breakfast; he was so patient with her, so sweet. The smile lines by his eyes are basically proof of his good nature.

All in all, I'm surprised to hear him say he doesn't typically get along with people—because getting on with people seems like exactly what he does best.

"Is this a recent thing, or have you always been this much of a pill?" I ask.

He snorts. Even though it's not a full laugh, I want to pump a fist in the air. I can tell how dazzling his smile would be if he ever allowed himself to show it. It makes me want to make him laugh again.

"Sorry," I admit. "It's just that I'm not used to not being liked. I won Miss Congeniality in my high school three times in a row, you know?"

"Really?" His tone is amused, but not sarcastic.

"Nah," I say. "I was voted in twice and almost won the third time, but Maylene Stevens had her mom bake apple pies for the entire football team, and she won by a landslide."

He gives another coughing half-laugh.

Then and there, I make it my mission to force him into a full belly laugh someday.

I'm not sure why it's so important to me. Maybe because beneath his prickly exterior, I can sense the profound sadness in his eyes. Perhaps because I see how much he loves his daughter, and how hard he's trying to be a good father for her.

Or maybe I'm a delusional masochist.

In any case, I think he desperately needs a laugh—and anyway, we all need a challenge.

I wonder what happened with his wife. Is she dead, or are they simply divorced? Has he been through the same kind of loss as me?

I don't ask. He's a little more relaxed now, and I don't want to send him back into his shell. I let myself have the quiet victory and hum along with the song on the radio—an old pop song I haven't heard in ages.

"California girls, we're unforgettable, Daisy Dukes, bikinis on top..."

Lennon snorts again, and I glance over. "What?"

"Nothing. It's just that you and Reed seem to have a lot in common."

"Oh." I blush, the pleasant little victory I was nursing instantly dying as I recall him finding me making out with Reed in the stables.

God, why did I have to remember that? It was such a mortifying ordeal. I don't know what's wrong with me—why I let myself make out with Reed like that. It was such an appalling lapse in judgment. Yes, Reed is a total beefcake, but he's trouble, and I already told myself I wouldn't get involved with him again. Still, the second he skimmed his lips over mine, it was like all my hard-earned resistance flew right out of my brain. I melted for him.

Never has a man been such a weakness for me. Even with my ex—who I thought I loved at the time—kissing him never made me lose myself. Sex with him was pleasant, but never all-consuming or desperate.

With Reed, when he stands close to me, staring into my eyes, I forget everything except the scent, taste, and feel of him. I become fully wanton, filled with a need that has to be sated.

Even now, I can picture his dark eyes glittering in the stable, his wicked smile as he walked away. He wasn't ashamed of what happened at all. His gaze told me it would happen again.

"Be careful," Lennon says suddenly, drawing my attention back to him.

"Huh?"

"With Reed. I know he's charming—probably very good at making you feel like you're the only woman in the world for him. He makes all his lovers feel like that. And when they're head over heels, he breaks their hearts and moves on to the next one. You have to understand—that's his nature. He doesn't take relationships seriously at all. Don't believe anything he tells you, and don't take it personally when it ends."

"Yeah." I cough, suddenly the one uncomfortable with the conversation. "Sure thing. I can see that he's not exactly 'steady boyfriend' material. Thanks for the warning and I appreciate you saying it."

He nods and refocuses on the road.

The warning, while kind, was unnecessary. It's not like I don't know who Reed is. I've met his type before—even if I haven't necessarily dated one. I doubt I'll get my heart broken by him, because he's not my type in the first place.

For relationships, I tend to prefer men who are softer and more in touch with their emotions—a nurturer and a carer. Or the tortured artist type.

To be honest, Lennon would normally be more my thing—if he could actually stand me, that is.

---