Page 4 of Auctioned to the Mountain Man

“You know,” Lily huffs, straining to lift one end of the bench, “most women at these auctions get dinner dates. Or help bake cookies.”

She grunts as the wood slips in her grip and curses under her breath as she checks her hands for splinters.

When her eyes lift, I see a layer of defiance deep in those brown eyes. “Whyis this thing so heavy?”

“Real wood,” I answer, hefting another bench with one arm. The difference between us would be comical if it didn’t twist something low in my gut. “Built to last. Unlike your patience, apparently.”

The words come out sharper than I mean them to. It’s the image that does it—some smooth-talking guy spinning her around a dance floor or tasting frosting off her finger. My jaw locks.

This is why I stick to my workshop. Wood doesn’t care if I’m rough-edged or quiet. It doesn’t expect charming banter or grand gestures—just honest work and steady hands.

I adjust my grip on the bench, ignoring what sounds like a frustrated growl that comes from her. “The quicker we move, the quicker we can get back to the mountain and get some real work done.”

To cover Lily’s costs, I’ll have to make a few extra pieces to sell on the side.

When a frown curls on her lips, I tell myself that it’s better this way. That I can’t get attached to her over the course of three days if the last thing she wants to do is breathe the same air as me.

With spite fueling her, she grunts as she picks up the bench again. “If I pull a muscle,you’regetting the bill.”

Snorting, I move past her with ease, ready to finish this job and move on to the next.

* * *

I leave Poppy instructions on how to build the pieces that aren’t already assembled. Between her worried glances at both of us and the hole I’ve got burning in the back of my head from being glared at, I’m ready to run back to the peace and serenity that the mountain brings.

The fresh air can’t fill my lungs soon enough.

Once we’re back outside, away from the rush of others claiming their prizes, I’m squinting toward the scenery.

“You’ll want to pack a bag, a few extra clothes, just in case. Bring something you don’t mind ruining. Might tear a hole or two as well.” Stating the obvious, I remember to blink.

Lily’s flushed from the labor, and I’ve purposely tried not to let my eyes drift in her direction each time she’s worked to catch her breath.

“You want me tostaywith you? After all that?” Scoffing, the motion of her dragging her fingers through her hair catches my eyes, and I fail terribly this time around.

“Need to make sure you actually show up. Besides… It’s more convenient for both of us.” My throat suddenly dries, and I shift, uncomfortable under her gaze.

What I can’t tell her is that this is already too much. That I’m on the edge of saying goodbye, but the damn feeling in my gut won’t let me. It’s lodged deep in my chest now, twisting into something I can’t name. And I know—if I let her walk away tonight, I’ll be haunted by it. This ache. This pull.

I don’t know how to kill it, so maybe dragging her up there with me is the only way to silence it.

That’s all this is. I’m not looking for more. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

She breathes in deep, holding in her breath like a bomb ticking away to explode. “This is going to be the worst weekend of my life.”

She stalks toward the line of cars, shoulders stiff with resolve. I reach out before I can stop myself. My fingers brush her shoulder—barely—and heat pulses through me like I’ve touched something wired straight to my spine.

It’s enough to lodge something thick in my throat, sharp and sudden.

Lily, of course, doesn’t flinch. She lets out a dramatic exhale, tosses a glare over her shoulder, and rolls her eyes like I’m the one being unreasonable.

“Relax. I’ll find you,” she says, voice like flint. “For Poppy, I’ll keep my word. But don’t think you’re getting off easy. I’m not going to be the only one miserable this weekend. Be ready, dude.”

It should sound like a threat. Maybe it is. But it’s hard to take her seriously when I’m standing this close—close enough to see the heat burning behind her eyes, the tension in her jaw, the way her defiance hums just under the surface.

Picking my brain at what she reminds me of, my mouth twitches as the realization settles in—a Chihuahua. A little thing that has all teeth, and sometimes, may bite. Especially if I get too close.

“Silas,” I correct, realizing that I haven’t even bothered to introduce myself since she’d stepped off stage. “At least call me by my name if you’re going to threaten me.”

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