Page 13 of My Protective Mountain Man

“There’s something I have to tell you,” Sierra says, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to, but something about you just feels so real. And if I keep this secret any longer I don’t think I’ll be able to look you in the eye. And I want everything about this to be true… to be real. ”

I straighten up. My stomach knots. Her eyes won’t meet mine.

“I came up here because… my boss sent me,” she says. “He wanted me to see if you were interested in selling your land. Your ten acres. For a resort.”

Silence crashes over the room like a thunderclap.

I blink. My brain refuses to catch up. “What?”

She finally looks at me. There’s guilt there, pain too. But it doesn’t soothe the fire building in my gut.

“So this was a job?” I ask, my voice sharper than I mean it to be. “That’s why you showed up here?”

“It started that way,” she says quickly. “But it’s not why I stayed. I swear. I’ll tell my boss you’re not selling. I just couldn’t keep it a secret anymore… not when I’m feeling—like this about you. ”

I stand and take a step back. The room feels too small suddenly. The walls are closing in.

“Was last night just part of the pitch?” I ask again, bitterness creeping into my throat. “Butter me up before the ask?”

Her face crumples. “No! Everest, I didn’t?—”

“You knew who I was from the beginning,” I cut her off. “You let me think it was fate. That it was…real.”

“Itwasreal,” she pleads. “I didn’t plan any of this. I didn’t expect to?—”

“To what? Sleep with the guy whose land you’re supposed to steal?”

She flinches like I slapped her. I immediately regret the words, but the damage is done.

She stands frozen for a moment. Then something in her shifts—like a wall going up, fast and final.

Tears brim in her eyes, but her voice is steady. “Maybe I should go.”

“Sierra—”

“No, it’s okay,” she says, standing fast and grabbing her bag. “You think I came here to manipulate you? That this was all some con? I should’ve known better than to think this could work. Than to believe you might actually—” Her voice cracks and she shakes her head.

“Do you even care about me?” I ask, hating how vulnerable I sound.

She stops. Turns.

“Of course I care about you,” she says. “That’s what makes this so damn hard.”

I see it in her eyes. The conflict. The pain. The truth.

And it only makes it worse.

Because part of me still wants to pull her into my arms. To believe her. To pretend the last five minutes never happened. But the rest of me—the part that’s been burned before—can’t stop screaming that I’m a fool.

She heads toward the door, and I feel like the floor is disappearing beneath me. Everything warm and good from the last twenty-four hours is being stripped away.

I take a step toward her but stop. My fists clench at my sides.

Because I don’t know what to say. Not yet. And if I say the wrong thing again, I’ll lose her for good.

She hesitates at the door. Just for a moment. Her hand on the knob. Like maybe she’s waiting for me to stop her.

But I don’t. And then she’s gone.

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