Page 12 of Found By the Mountain Man
For a few precious minutes, we just hold each other, the only sounds the crackling fire and our gradually slowing breathing. Outside, the storm continues to rage around Connor's cabin, sealing us away from the world. I feel utterly content, completely satisfied in a way I never have before.
But gradually, I become aware of a subtle shift in Connor's energy. A tension creeping back into his muscles, a careful distance being inserted into what moments before had been complete intimacy.
He pulls back to look at me, and I see the exact moment the doubts crash back in. The professional mask sliding back into place.
"We should..." he starts, then clears his throat. "I should check your temperature. Make sure the exertion didn't cause any complications from the hypothermia."
The clinical words hit me like a bucket of cold water. Just like that, I'm no longer his lover but his patient again.
I watch him retreat—physically and emotionally—with a growing sense of hurt and confusion. The man who just made love to me with such tenderness and passion has been replaced by the efficient EMT who pulled me from the creek.
"What just happened?" I ask, sitting up and pulling the blanket around myself.
He pauses in pulling on his shirt, his back still to me. "You've been through a traumatic experience. Sometimes the body's response to near-death situations can include heightened emotional and physical reactions. It's completely normal."
His words feel like a slap. "So you think this was just some kind of trauma response? That I only wanted you because you saved my life?"
"I think," he says carefully, finally turning to face me but keeping his distance, "that we should both get some rest. Things will look different in the morning."
The dismissal in his tone cuts deep. Minutes ago, he was inside me, whispering that I was perfect, looking at me like I was the most important thing in his world. Now he's treating me like a confused patient who needs to be managed.
"You're wrong," I say quietly, but with absolute conviction. "This wasn't trauma or gratitude or some kind of rebound reaction. This was real."
"Get some rest, Mavis," he says, then retreats to the kitchen, putting as much physical space between us as the small cabin allows.
I pull his t-shirt back on, the fabric carrying his scent, and lie back down on the couch. But sleep is the furthest thing from my mind.
Because whatever Connor wants to believe about what just happened between us, I know the truth. In his arms, under his touch, I felt something I'd never experienced before. Not justphysical pleasure, though that had been incredible, but a sense of being completely seen and utterly safe at the same time.
For those precious minutes, I wasn't Mavis the photographer, or Mavis the granddaughter trying to live up to an impossible legacy, or Mavis the woman who'd nearly died pursuing the perfect shot.
I was just Mavis. And somehow, that had been enough. More than enough.
Connor can retreat behind his professional boundaries all he wants, but I know what I felt. And more importantly, I know what he felt too, no matter how hard he's trying to deny it now.
Connor Hayes saved my life today. But somehow, in the process, I think I might have saved his too.
Now I just have to convince him to let me.
six
Connor
Iwakebeforedawn,like I have every day for the past fifteen years. What's different this morning is the tight knot of guilt sitting heavy in my chest.
I'm slumped in the kitchen chair where I finally fell asleep sometime after three AM, my neck kinked at an uncomfortable angle. Across the cabin, Mavis is still curled up on the couch, her dark hair spread across the pillow, one arm trailing off the edge. She looks peaceful in sleep, younger somehow, and beautiful enough to make my chest ache.
Beautiful enough to make me forget every professional boundary I've ever sworn to uphold.
Christ, what did I do?
The memories come flooding back—her hands on my skin, the taste of her on my tongue, the way she felt wrapped around me, tight and perfect and mine. The way she looked at me afterward, like I'd given her something precious instead of taking advantage of a vulnerable situation.
Because that's what I did, isn't it? Took advantage. She's a rescue victim, twenty years younger than me, dealing with trauma and hypothermia and God knows what else. And I, the man who was experienced, trained, supposedly responsible, couldn't keep my hands off her.
I scrub my palms over my face, trying to erase the images, but they're burned into my memory. The sound she made when I first touched her. The way her back arched when I used my mouth on her. How she whispered my name like a prayer when she came apart in my arms.
I need coffee. And a cold shower. And possibly a lobotomy to forget how perfect she felt beneath me.
