Page 3 of My Forbidden Mountain Man

“Everything alright?” My driver throws me a curious glance.

“Pressure in the ear, that’s all,” I excuse before turning my attention to the passing trees.

The drive doesn’t last forever, thank goodness. Sleep continues to prickle at the corners of my eyes, my exhaustion growing.

Almost there.

When the truck comes to a stop, I’m left looking at a cabin I was dragged to at only seventeen by my mother, who insisted her lover at the time would be the final man I’d be calling my step-dad.

Look how that turned out.

Dragging my luggage up rickety stairs, I abandon all my belongings to approach the front door. Once my hands are free, I’m banging a balled fist against the door as the sound of Sawyer’s truck grows to nothing.

The silence isdeafening.

“Logan!” Calling out my ex-step-dad’s name takes strength I don’t realize I have to keep my voice from cracking.

I’m blaming my weak grip on my emotions on a bad day. By the start of tomorrow, I’ll be stronger.

Pounding my hand harder, I don’t stop. Even when my pinkie starts to throb, Ineedhim to be on the other side.

I need a win.

Finally, when the door suddenly gets yanked open, I almost hit him as my brain stalls because of the sight before my eyes.

A low growl welcomes me, almost enough to make me want to run.

“What the fuck do you—”

The man before me can’t finish his sentence, not as silence returns, and he takes me in.

Not like the strangers of this small town. Not at all. His eyes scan me with purpose, his brows furrowing deep enough to brush his eyelashes.

Oh.Oh.

Logan is just like this town—worn-in at the edges, pretending at familiarity.

I remember him clean-shaven, inkless, his laughter loud enough to shake the dinner table. But the man in front of me now is a stranger wearing his face. A beard, rough and unkempt, shadows his jaw. Tattoos—fresh, dark, deliberate—crawl up his forearms like creeping vines. And his eyes?

They don’t laugh anymore. They measure. And right now? He’s taking me in one inch at a time. Memorizing every inch his eyes touch.

Holy shit, he’s hot. In a weird, falling off the face of the earth, recluse kind of way.

Once I start looking, I find it hard to stop. I’m taking in all the changes one at a time, my pulse kicking in overtime.

He’s one of Mom’s exes. A relic from her matrimonial dumpster fire. I know this.

Why does he have to be hot? This will make things more complicated.

“Logan.”Dragging out his name, my lips curve into a smile. My hands find my hips, and I catch myself using the same toneI always rely on whenever I need something. Call it a bad habit. “Remember me?”

Six years is a long time, and just like him, I’m not the same person. I’ve abandoned my quiet, shy persona and morphed myself into the person I needed to be to survive. To live the life of my dream and stay relevant.

Sure, my methods are probably frowned upon, but here I am, still kicking.

He doesn’t answer quickly enough. His lips part, and it’s like he’s at a loss for words. There’s no way he could have forgotten about me. Not after I sent both of them tickets to our shows for the first few years.

I can’t remember when I stopped sending him the VIP passes. It might have been after my mother gave me an earful about their divorce, giving me a whole list of complaints about him.

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