Page 58 of Orphan Girl's Mountain Men

"Damn it, Hailey."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Be careful." His eyes meet mine, scolding but concerned. It might've annoyed me once, but now I understand it. When he gets all growly, it's usually because he's worried—like yesterday, when Reed was out too long and wouldn't answer his phone. It's funny how well I can read him now. Whatonce seemed like pure bossiness now feels like something else entirely. Care. Affection.

While Reed keeps the cold water running over my hand, Lennon heads off to fetch the ointment. Meanwhile, Dean finally scoops up Grace, who's still reminding everyone that there are cupcakes in the oven. He sets her on a high stool, slips on an oven mitt, giving me a pointed look as he does so, and pulls the tray out. I roll my eyes. Yeah, yeah, message received—use the mitt next time.

Lennon returns and leads me over to the couch, where he gently applies the sharp-smelling, minty ointment to my palm.

"It might sting, and the skin might peel," he says. "But it'll be fine."

"Thank you," I say softly. He meets my gaze and gives me a small smile—one that makes my heart skip.

"Daddy!" Grace calls. "Should I kiss her boo-boo?"

His smile turns crooked. "Only if Hailey wants you to."

"Do you want me to kiss your boo-boo, Hailey?"

"I would be honored."

She hops off her seat and comes over to gently kiss my hand. Then she wrinkles her nose at the sharp minty smell. "It smells yucky, Daddy."

"That's because I put medicine on it." He caps the ointment and straightens up, looking at me in the eyes. "You stay down for the rest of the night, and you should probably skip any farm work tomorrow so it doesn't get infected. I might come over later to check on it."

I nod. It feels like overkill for a burn, but I'm not used to being taken care of like this. So I say quietly, "Thank you."

He gives me one of his heart-melting smiles, and I blush slightly, and smile back. Out of the corner of my eye, I see that this exchange hasn't gone unnoticed by Reed and Dean, who arewatching us from across the room. But the second I look their way, their eyes drop.

I'm banned from taking any further active part in the baking process, despite this whole cupcake idea being mine in the first place. The men insist on finishing the job themselves, and I am relegated to watching from the sidelines as they bicker over measurements for the frosting and debate whether or not they should cut out a section and add frosting to the middle or spread the frosting on top. They even ask each other the question of the century—"What exactly is a frosted lolly?" Grace tries to explain, but her answer only confuses everyone more. In the end they simply make up another batch of cupcake mixture, but this time making the batter as thick as possible and going for a longer, thinner shape, doing the best they can with the batter on a flat baking sheet instead of filling up the indents in a traditional, round, cupcake sheet. It’s a sorry looking mess by the time it’s done, but it seems to satisfy Grace.

It's an adorable scene, and it fills me to the top with warm fuzzies. Their good-humored bickering reminds me of my parents. I'd been a very young child at the time, but as far as I can remember, Mom and Dad were both highly talented cooks, each in their own unique way. They always argued in the kitchen, good-naturedly, about whose roast potatoes were best or whose gravy had the fewest lumps. They were free spirits who refused to follow a cookbook recipe, insisting instead on adding their own twist—usually involving whatever happened to be in the fridge or cupboards that needed using up. Their experiments turned out either amazing or horrifically inedible in roughly equal measure, but they were rarely bland. Even with the bad ones, we'd choke it down anyway, with plenty of laughter—and fruit juice, if necessary, to wash away any lingering aftertaste.

"Hey," Reed says, rounding the counter and walking over to me. I notice the other two are still chatting with Grace, but their eyes are on me too. "You okay?"

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"

He gently strokes a finger down my cheek, and when he pulls it back, there's a tear clinging to his knuckle. Shoot. I didn't even realize I was crying.

"Sorry," I say quickly, wiping my face to catch any others. "It's…" I hold up my hand. "This stings."

Reed's expression softens. I don't think he buys it, but he doesn't press me.

I'm put on bed rest the next morning too, which feels like overkill for a burn, but Dean insists. He says I can come in later to help with the accounting.

The next morning, after Lennon returns from dropping Grace off at pre-school, he comes into my room and says, "Hey. Figured you might need more ointment."

"Oh, sure." I sit up in bed as he walks in and settles beside me. His scent drifts toward me—mint, pine, and something deeper. He smells like rain. Like storm clouds. The intensity in his gaze as he spreads the ointment makes me melt. His gentle touch arouses me.

"How does it feel?"

"Good."

He shoots me a confused look, and I realize I gave him the totally wrong answer to his questions. A hot blush fills my cheeks. "I mean to say that it feels okay. I've had worse than that, so..," I shrug uselessly.Jesus, get your mind out of the gutter.

He smiles. "I'm glad it's feeling better."

"And you…how are you feeling?" I don't know if it's the right thing to say, but I feel like I have to ask about what he shared with me yesterday. I still can't believe he opened up to me like that, about his wife, and while a part of me is warning me not to ruin it by asking questions, a bigger part of me wants to know more, if only to make sure he's okay.

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