Page 7 of Trapped with the Mountain Man

“Don’t like guns?” I ask.

Abby pauses like she’s not sure how to answer. Finally, she mutters, “Not really” before finishing off her coffee.

We’re in Tennessee and as I just explained to her, I’m law enforcement, so I’m surprised the sight of a gun is so jarring to her. Maybe she’s a hippy type from California or something. Her accent isn’t Tennesee.

I need to get a shower and change out of my wet clothes anyway, so I walk across the room and crouch down beside the bed. The black box slides open after I punch in the combination, and I drop my handgun beside the rifle. She watches me carefully the entire time, holding completely still in the kitchen.

“I’m gonna grab a shower. Help yourself to more coffee if you want,” I say.

The bathroom is still steamy from Abby’s shower. The curtain and rug are damp. She used my soap and shampoo, but the smell that lingers is different somehow.

Her lips pressed into an O, blowing on her coffee. Her bare skin under my thin t-shirt. These are the thoughts that pass through my mind under six minutes of hot water as my hand wraps around my cock.

I feel a little guilty thinking about her like this while she’s sitting out there completely oblivious, but something about her just has me worked up. Not her, specifically, I tell myself. She’s not special. It’s just that I haven’t been with anyone in a while. I just need a quick release and then I’ll go back out there and see that this one’s no different than all the other lost Broads I’ve met this summer.

Chapter 5

Abby

Seating options are limited inside the small cabin. There’s the dining room table, a clunky office chair behind the desk, and the bed. I settle in at the cluttered dining room table. It’s covered with paperwork, maps, and brochures. There’s a stack of boxes in the corner and one carelessly flung onto the table and haphazardly cut open. The swirl of heather gray fabric inside matches the shirt I was wearing when I woke up. A sticker on the side reads ‘Smokey shirts gray – boys XL husky.’

Perfect.

I clear a small spot for my fresh cup of coffee and stare out the window, looking for any sign that the rain is letting up.

It’s not. If anything, it’s getting worse.

How long does Hunter honestly think we’ll be trapped here?

The cabin is a better place to wait out the storm than the hiking shelter, but it’s not without its own set of problems. For starters, there’s only one bed. No sofa. Not even a chair that could pass as for a suitable sleeping arrangement. There’s also the fact that I feel like an invader in his space. It’s pretty clear that he’s irritated by my presence, and I haven’t exactly been charmed by his sparkling personality. Looking around, there’s almost nothing to pass the time here, aside from sitting around and staring at each other…which he has already done a lot of. He thinks I don’t notice all of his little glances, but I do.

They’re predatory. Primal.

He masks them behind an antagonizing glare, but I see his eyes linger occasionally.

As I sit and sip my coffee, I notice the phone sitting on the desk near the door. It’s bulky and beige – or maybe just discolored from age. The number pad has thick buttons that sit slightly eschew from years of being jammed by fingers repeatedly. Most likely from Hunter’s thick, indelicate fingers.

I know I should try to call my family. They’ll be worried. This storm has definitely made the news, maybe even nationally. As overprotective as they are, I’m sure they are keeping tabs on the weather reports in the area. They won’t be surprised that they can’t reach my cell, which is dead and drowning in my hiking bag anyway, but they’ll still panic. As strong as my inclination to call and reassure them is, my pride drowns it out. I know the relief in their voices would give way to their own validation that I should never have attempted this hike. It would be a minute of relief, followed by endless lectures and I-told-you-so’s. The only thing worse than being trapped indefinitely in this cabin with a grumpy bear of a man is the idea of listening as my mother cries hysterically while trying to guilt me into an apology.

The water cuts out in the bathroom and Hunter emerges a moment later, clutching the knot of a towel around his waist. Above it, there’s a plane of hard lines and well-defined muscles, glistening with moisture. Wet tendrils of hair hang near his eyes and dot his cheeks with drops of water.

Now it’s my turn to stare. If he would have looked up a second earlier, he would have also seen my jaw drop a little.

“Sorry,” he mutters from across the room while digging through the dresser. “Not used to company.”

I make an embarrassing attempt at speech, which escapes my lips as a squeaky croak. Like a mouse trapped inside a toad. I can only hope it went unheard over the sound of the pouring rain outside. Fixing my eyes down on my cup of coffee, I wait until the bathroom door closes again to release a breath I wasn’t aware I was holding.

When Hunter emerges again, dressed in a gray t-shirt and dark jeans, he heads straight for the refrigerator. A package of ground beef lands on the counter with a thud and saliva pools in the deep corners of my mouth. I jump out of my seat to help, pulling at the bottom hem of my shirt to keep it in place as I stand.

“Hamburgers?” I ask hopefully.

“Yeah, but don’t get too excited. Won’t be as good cooked on the stove instead of the grill, and I don’t have any condiments.”

I’m standing close beside him – too close – as he tears open the plastic wrap. The heat of the shower radiates from his skin and the woodsy soap smells so much better on him than it did when I lathered it into my own hands. I’m lucky that I manage to keep my drool from splattering onto the tiny amount of floor between us, and I don’t think it can all be attributed to the promise of real food.

“Have you ever had a s’more-flavored granola bar, Hunter?” I ask.

“Absolutely fucking not.”

---