Page 2 of My Obsessive Mountain Man

It's true. Those are some of my fondest memories of her.

"I stocked the fridge yesterday when I heard you were coming," he continues, opening a cabinet to reveal tea boxes and other essentials. "Guest room is made up too. You'll be comfortable."

I should be alarmed by this level of preparation from a stranger, but instead, I find myself oddly touched. "You've been expecting me."

"For three years." The simple honesty in those words catches me off guard.

Lightning flashes outside, followed by a distant rumble of thunder. The mountains have disappeared behind a wall of gray.

"Your real estate agent won't make it back until after the storm passes," Paul says, watching me carefully. "Roads get dangerous here when it rains. You should stay until it blows over."

"I have a hotel booked in town."

"Town's thirty minutes in good weather. Longer in this." He nods toward the window where rain has started to patter against the glass. "You're safer here."

I should argue, should insist on keeping to my plan, maintaining the professional distance I always do. But something about this place—about him—makes me hesitate.

"I suppose one night wouldn't hurt," I concede. "I need to look through some things anyway."

Paul nods, satisfied, and turns back to the stove as the kettle whistles. There's something fascinating about watching his large hands perform the delicate task of preparing tea—measured, precise movements that speak of care and attention to detail.

"I didn't expect to find anyone here," I say as he hands me a steaming mug, the tea prepared exactly as I like it without my having to ask. "Let alone someone who seems to know so much about me."

Paul leans against the counter, his large frame somehow making the spacious kitchen feel smaller.

"Your grandmother kept this place alive with stories about you," he says. "The art prodigy who could identify painters by their brushstrokes when she was twelve. The woman who turned her eye for beauty into a career."

"She exaggerated. Grandmothers do that." Heat rises to my cheeks.

"I don't think she did," Paul replies, his gaze steady, appraising in a way that makes me feel both exposed and seen. "You have her way of looking at things—really seeing them."

I take a sip of tea to hide my reaction, surprised to find it perfectly brewed.

"And what exactly do you see, Mr. Mullins?" I ask.

His eyes crinkle slightly at the corners, not quite a smile.

"I see Martha's granddaughter, finally home," he says simply.

"I'm only here to sell the place, you know?" I remind him, and perhaps myself.

"Are you?" he asks quietly, and the simple question feels like a challenge I'm not prepared to answer.

The power flickers as another crash of thunder shakes the windows. Paul moves to the fireplace and strikes a match, setting it to the kindling. The fire catches immediately, casting his profile in gold and shadow.

"I should get my bags," I say, needing a moment to collect myself.

"I'll get them. Storm's picking up." He rises to his full height, and I'm again struck by his sheer presence. He doesn't wait for my response, just strides past me and out the door.

I watch from the window as rain plasters his shirt to his back. He retrieves my suitcase and laptop bag from the car with efficient movements, seemingly unbothered by the downpour. Something about his protective certainty makes my chest tight.

The power flickers again and goes out completely, leaving only the glow of the fire. Paul returns, setting my bags down, water dripping from his hair.

"Power lines are fragile up here," he says, running a hand through his wet hair. "But the generator will kick in soon for the essentials. We've got the fire for warmth."

"We?" I ask softly.

He looks at me, firelight dancing across his face, and in his eyes I see something that should send me running back into the storm—a certainty, a possession, a claim that has no right to exist between strangers.

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