Page 25 of Trapped with the Mountain Man

A second later, Hunter responds.

“It looks like the storm is passing. The road should be clearing up pretty soon. Any idea when you and Ms. Webb will make it back to town?”

The way the man says Ms. Webb makes me think he knows that I’m a teacher. And if he knows that, he probably has a pretty good idea about the rest of the story. All the knots in my shoulders that Hunter worked so hard to remove in the shower stiffen again. I know I should have told Hunter the whole story by now, but he hasn’t pushed the issue. Once he knows, he will look at me differently, and I sort of like the way he looks at me now.

“Uh, probably best to wait till tomorrow to head back. The creek is probably still flooded.”

I can’t tell if he’s telling the truth, or if Hunter wants to delay the inevitable as much as I do.

“Alright, we’ll let the family know. Just be careful heading back, the media’s still camped out right when you get into town.”

“Will do.”

When I walk out of the bathroom, Hunter’s hand is still on the radio. His brow is furrowed and he seems to be lost in thought. He glances up at me.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“Yeah, your family is just asking for an ETA on getting you back to town. Sounds like something is going on back in Gatlinburg – some sort of media circus.”

I shrug and make a contemplative noise. It comes out like an old prospector surveying the hills, but Hunter doesn’t seem to notice. I examine his face, looking for any signs of recognition, but all I find are downturned lips and hard brown eyes.

He’s back in grizzly bear mode.

We both silently go back to cleaning up the cabin. Hunter is more forceful in his movements than before. He balls up the dishcloth and chucks it at the counter rather than folding it up and practically breaks every dish he picks up, from the sound of it. I give him some space. As comfortable as we’ve been with each other over the past twenty-four hours, the lines that were drawn over dinner the first night are still there. It’s a delicate balance of understanding each other without really knowing each other.

The idea that I’ll leave here tomorrow without actually knowing much at all about this man creates a sinking feeling in my stomach. It’s probably for the best though since I’ve never slept with a man that I didn’t date for way too long afterward.

Something tells me that Hunter has the opposite problem, and maybe it’s best if I let him keep some of his secrets.

Hunter disappears outside for a while without a word. From my spot on the bed, I catch glimpses of him trudging back and forth on the path to the shed, carrying sandbags and wood. Each time he passes, his hair is a little damper and his expression is a little surlier. I hope he snaps out of it soon. If I only get one more night here with this man, I want to make the most of it.

I flip lazily through my book. When I get to the section about Boxwood Falls, disappointment washes over me. It was supposed to be the last leg of my epic journey to transformation. I was supposed to be healed and ready to face the world again by the time I got there. Sure, I could rent a car and drive there. It’s only a mile walk from the parking lot to the waterfall, but a mile isn’t nearly long enough to undo these past few months of my life.

Instead, my journey will end with more of the same: news crews and anxiety.

That’s when I have an idea. It’s hardly even an idea, actually; it’s so obvious. I hop off the bed and walk over to the desk near the door. Flipping to the back of the book, I compare the author’s map to the one in front of me.

It wouldn’t be too far. I could still finish this. There’s a trail that bypasses the shelter where Hunter found me and leads back to the main part of the Appalachian Trail.

With a renewed sense of hope, I perch on the bed again, rereading parts of the book and making little notes in the margins. When Hunter comes back inside, I’m sitting cross-legged in the center of the bed and beaming up at him.

As grumpy as he may be at the moment, I see a smile tug at his lips when he looks up at me.

He pulls his jacket off, leaving a trail of water droplets on the floor near the door. Moisture rolls off his hair and speckles his shoulders. A strip of damp black fabric runs from the collar of his t-shirt down to the obvious ridge of his belt, where his t-shirt was exposed to the elements by his unzipped jacket. It clings to him. All I can think of as he takes a few steps towards the bed is licking, kissing, biting that trail of cool, wet flesh. Unbuckling his belt and continuing the trail. Brushing my lips against the sensitive spot just below the tip of his hardness until he needs more of me. More of my mouth on him and around him. More of my body to use as he pleases.

Hunter’s weight dips into the mattress beside me. He perches on the edge of the bed between the fireplace and me as he props his foot on his knee and begins unlacing one of his heavy boots.

I’ve never found the idea of a sweaty man alluring, but now I realize that there’s a world of difference between the stale stench of an hour spent at the gym and the scent of Hunter’s hard-earned mountain lifestyle. He smells like the forest – pine and juniper and mountain breeze with a hint of salt that reminds me of the ocean.

No other man will ever smell as good as Hunter.

After removing one boot, Hunter glances back at me and then down at my book.

“That old chestnut?” he smirks before turning his attention to the laces of the other boot.

“Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone under the age of seventy use that expression.”

Hunter’s shoulders heave with a quiet laugh. His boot lands with a thud and he turns his attention back to me. The smirk lingers on his lips, but his eyes are dark and his eyebrow cocked as he looks at me.

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