Page 14 of My Obsessive Mountain Man

I wipe the grease from my hands with an old rag as the generator finally sputters to life, the low mechanical hum a welcome sound after hours of silence. The cabin lights flicker once, twice, then steady as electricity flows through the old wiring again.

"Got it," I call through the open door, slipping my tools back into their canvas roll. "Just a clogged fuel line."

She fits here. That's the thought that keeps circling through my mind as I step back inside and see Violet moving around the kitchen, barefoot and wearing nothing but my flannel shirt. The hem reaches mid-thigh, revealing glimpses of soft skin with each movement. Her hair is tousled from my hands, her lips slightly swollen from my kisses.

I can't stop looking at her.

"Perfect timing," she says, opening the refrigerator now that the power's restored. "I was worried about all this food going bad."

"Crisis averted," I reply, washing my hands at the sink. "What are you in the mood for?"

She considers the refrigerator's contents, then looks up with a smile. "How do you feel about breakfast for dinner? I make a mean omelet."

"Sounds perfect," I say, reaching past her to pull out eggs, cheese, and the wild mushrooms I'd collected earlier in the week. "There's fresh herbs in the garden if you want them."

She turns, leaning against the counter, her eyes meeting mine with a warmth that makes my chest tighten. "Is there anything you don't do?"

"Can't bake a decent pie to save my life," I admit, moving closer to her, drawn by some invisible force I've stopped trying to resist. "Your grandmother tried to teach me. Said I had 'heavy hands.'"

Violet laughs, the sound light and free. "She used to say the same thing to me. 'Violet Carson, you can't rush pastry. It knows when you're impatient.'"

I reach her, unable to maintain even this small distance. My hands find her waist, feeling the soft curves beneath the flannel. "You sound just like her when you do that."

"Do what?" she asks, looking up at me with those amber eyes.

"Say your full name like it's both a scold and an endearment."

She smiles, her hands coming to rest on my chest. "Paul Mullins," she says deliberately, drawing out each syllable. "You are remarkably distracting when I'm trying to cook dinner."

I lower my head, brushing my lips against hers. "We could always eat later."

Her stomach growls in protest, and she laughs against my mouth. "Food first. Then...whatever else you have in mind."

Reluctantly, I step back, but not far. Never far.

I can't seem to stop touching her—a hand at the small of her back as she chops vegetables, my fingers brushing hers as I pass her a plate, my lips against her temple as I reach around her for the salt. Each small contact feels necessary, like breathing.

We work together in the kitchen as if we've done it a hundred times before. There's an ease between us that defies our short acquaintance. She anticipates my movements; I intuit her needs. When she reaches for something on a high shelf, I'm alreadythere, lifting it down for her. When I search for a serving spoon, she points to the exact drawer without looking up from the pan she's stirring.

"How does this feel so natural?" she asks quietly, echoing my thoughts as she plates our simple meal.

"Because it is," I answer simply, carrying the plates to the small table near the hearth. I've set it with candles, their flickering light turning the ordinary space into something intimate and warm. "Some things just are, Violet. No explanation needed."

She follows with glasses of water, the ice clinking softly. "My whole life is built around explanations," she says, settling into the chair I hold out for her. "Cataloging, categorizing, assigning value. Nothing exists without context."

I take the seat across from her, close enough that our knees touch beneath the small table. "And this? What context does this fit into?"

She looks at me, her expression thoughtful. "That's just it. It doesn't fit anywhere. It simply...is."

We eat in comfortable silence for a while, exchanging glances that say more than words could. The food is simple but good—fresh and honest, like everything in this place. Occasionally our fingers brush as we reach for the salt or pass the water pitcher, and each time, I feel that same electric current between us.

"Tell me about your life in Chicago," I say eventually, genuinely curious about the world she comes from. "What does a typical day look like for you?"

She describes a life of gallery showings and auction houses, of valuing other people's treasures and negotiating their worth. As she speaks, I watch her face carefully, noting how little lightenters her eyes when discussing her work. There's pride there, certainly—she's good at what she does—but no passion, no fire.

"And you?" she asks. "What does Paul Mullins do on a typical mountain day?"

I tell her about my woodworking, the custom furniture I build in the workshop behind my cabin. About foraging and fishing, about the quiet rhythms of mountain life. About the veterans' group I lead twice a month in town, teaching wilderness skills as a way to find peace after combat.

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