Page 5 of My Protective Mountain Man

“Sierra.”

He nods like he likes it. “You’re also named after mountains?”

“Guess it’s fitting,” I say, flashing a small smile.

It’s crazy how easy this feels, especially after weeks—months—of working under a man who makes my skin crawl, of backdoor deals and fake smiles and being overlooked or over-touched. But this? Sitting on a worn couch in a dusty cabin, flirting with a man whose arms could crush granite and whose eyes feel like ice water on a burn?

This is the firsteasything I’ve done in this job.

And I’m not stupid. I’m not just here because he’s hot and heroic. I’m here to get him to sign over his land. To make the deal. To finish the damn resort and get what I deserve.

But if flirting gets me closer to yes, then fine.

Let him think I’m just some lost girl with soft eyes and a sweet voice. But something about me doesn’t want to play the game. I just want to spend time with him. I can’t explain it, but it just feels like something is right by being here.

“You live up here all by yourself?” I ask, tilting my head slightly, letting my fingers graze the rim of the glass. “That must get… lonely.”

He watches me carefully, like he’s trying to figure me out. Good luck, Mr. Mountain. I’ve spent years learning how to wear a mask.

His voice is low, rough. “It’s peaceful.”

God. That voice. That mouth. That beard.

“You sure you’re alright?” he asks, voice low, steady. “I can drive you into town. Clinic’s about forty minutes out, but they’ll check your vitals, get you hydrated, maybe give you an IV.”

Part of me wants to say yes.The smart part.The part that still thinks in terms of liability and strategy and getting back to cell service before someone from the office starts calling.

But another part of me—the part that’s sitting in this quiet, wood-smelling cabin with a man who just caught me in his arms and cooled me down like hegave a damn—doesn’t want to go anywhere.

His beard is a little uneven. His brow is furrowed, concerned.He cares. No one in my professional life ever looks at me like this.

“I think…” I pause, then put a hand lightly to my stomach. “I might just have low blood sugar. Maybe I need to eat something.”

His expression eases, just a touch. “That it?”

“I think so,” I say, nodding, managing a soft smile. “I didn’t really eat today. Or drink. Or… plan ahead at all.”

“Alright,” he says, standing slowly. “No problem. I’ll make you something.”

He turns and walks into the kitchen like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I watch him move—broad shoulders shifting beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, his jeans worn and faded, hanging low on narrow hips. He moves like someone who works with his hands, who builds things from nothing. Andnowhe’s about to cook for me?

I sink back into the couch, a little stunned by the warmth spreading in my chest.

No man has ever cooked for me before. Not a boyfriend. Not a date. Not even a guy who wanted something. It’s always been me picking up takeout, making something quick between deadlines, or just skipping meals entirely to prove I can keep up with the boys.

But now this mountain man is pulling out a skillet and a mixing bowl like it’s nothing. He opens the fridge—an old one, humming loudly—and starts pulling out eggs, milk, bacon. He hums under his breath. The sound of it—low and a little rough—fills the room like it belongs here. LikeIbelong here.

God, this is dangerous.

CHAPTER

FOUR

EVEREST

I’ve gotthe bacon sizzling, the pancakes are golden, and the cabin smells like butter and maple syrup. I haven’t cooked for anyone but myself in… hell, I don’t even know how long. Years. But it feels natural, moving around the kitchen with her in the other room. Knowing she’s here. Safe.

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