Page 8 of My Obsessive Mountain Man

When our lips finally meet, it's not tentative or questioning. It's recognition. His mouth is firm and warm against mine, confident but not demanding. My hands find their way to hischest, feeling the solid beat of his heart beneath my palm. He tastes like coffee and honey, and I'm suddenly starving for it.

The kiss deepens, his arms tightening around me, lifting me slightly so I'm pressed fully against him. My fingers tangle in his hair, drawing him closer still. There's no hesitation, no awkwardness—just heat and certainty and a bone-deep rightness that terrifies and thrills me.

When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, he keeps me close, his forehead resting against mine. The music box has gone silent, but I can still feel its melody resonating in my blood.

"I've known you were mine since I saw that picture," he murmurs against my lips, his words vibrating through me. "I just needed you to know it too."

Yesterday, these words would have sent me running. Now, with his taste still on my tongue and the solid warmth of him against me, all I can think is: Yes. This. Here.

For the first time in my adult life, I don't want to escape. I don't want to analyze or appraise or put a value on what's happening. I just want to surrender to it, to him, to the strange certainty that's been building since I first saw him on the porch.

I've stopped running, and it feels like coming home.

Chapter 4 – Paul

Sunlight pours through the windows like honey, turning dust motes to gold as they dance in the air. The storm has passed, leaving behind that particular mountain clarity—air so clean it almost hurts to breathe it, colors so vivid they seem unreal. I'm sweeping the porch, a mundane task I've done a thousand times, but today everything is different.

Because Violet is here.

She sits in the old rocking chair, one of her grandmother's journals open in her lap, but she isn't reading. Her gaze is fixed on the distant mountains, lost in thought. The kiss we shared in the treasure room hangs between us—not awkward, but weighty with possibility. Neither of us has mentioned it, but I feel it in every glance, every careful movement as we navigate the cabin's close quarters.

I pause in my sweeping, allowing myself to really look at her. Sunlight catches in her auburn hair, setting it ablaze with copper and gold. She's kicked off her shoes, and her bare feet are tucked beneath her, showing painted toenails. Her body fills the chair perfectly, soft and curved—full breasts rising and falling with each breath, the generous curve of her hip where it meets the chair's arm, thighs pressed together beneath her jeans.

I want to hold onto her. I want to sink my fingers into the give of her flesh, bury my face in the crook of her neck, breathe her in until she's the only air in my lungs.

"You're staring," she says without looking at me, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

"Can't help it," I admit, not bothering to deny it. There's no point in pretenses between us anymore.

She turns then, meeting my gaze directly. The sunlight catches her eyes, turning them to amber. "What are you thinking when you look at me like that?"

The question is bold, direct. I consider softening my answer, but something tells me Violet Carson doesn't want soft half-truths.

"I'm thinking you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in these mountains," I tell her, my voice low and rough with honesty. "And that chair's never held anyone it suited better."

Color rises in her cheeks, but she doesn't look away. "You have a way of saying things that makes it impossible to doubt you."

"That's because I don't say things I don't mean."

She nods slowly, accepting this. Then she closes the journal and stands, stretching in a way that makes her t-shirt ride up, revealing a glimpse of soft, pale skin at her waist. My mouth goes dry.

"I should call the real estate agent," she says, moving toward the door. "See if she can come out tomorrow, now that the roads are clear."

The words hit me by surprise. I knew this was coming—of course I did—but hearing her say it still feels like ice water in my veins. I resume sweeping, my movements more forceful than necessary.

"Roads might still have debris," I say, keeping my tone neutral with effort. "And the creek crossing floods for days after a storm like that."

She pauses in the doorway, watching me with those perceptive eyes. "Paul."

Just my name, but it holds a question. I stop sweeping and face her directly.

"I have a life in Chicago," she says gently. "A job, an apartment, responsibilities. I can't just... stay."

"Can't? Or won't?" The words come out sharper than I intended.

Her eyes narrow slightly. "Is there a difference?"

I set the broom aside and close the distance between us in three long strides. Not touching her, but close enough that I can smell the faint floral scent of her hair, see the individual freckles scattered across her nose.

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