Page 11 of The Mountain Man's Curvy Surprisem
Off-the-charts chemistry floods the space between us, a vicious current that threatens to drag me under. By the look on Mack’s face, he feels the same way, whether or not he’ll admit it.
“Tea sounds good. Thank you.”
“Iced or hot?”
“Iced, please.” I continue fanning myself to drive home the point.
“Sweet or unsweetened?”
My eyes dart to his, surprise written in my face. “Well, sweet, of course. I’m surprised you have it. It’s not a beverage I encounter much on the West Coast.”
He shrugs. “Years in Georgia will do that to you.”
“With the 75th Batt,” I say with a sweet smile.
His face clouds. “How?”
“You told me in your emails,” I remind gently.
“Emails? Oh, yeah,” he says, turning on his heels and heading for the kitchen. “Let me grab you that drink.”
The giant Ranger disappears, and I strain to catch my breath. I can’t.
Between his mouthwatering looks and his grumpy personality, I’m in a quandary, feeling too many things simultaneously. Especially when I let my mind wander to his romantic letters. Such a strange dichotomy exists between thisflesh and blood man and his inner musings. I don’t know if I’ll ever figure it out, let alone him.
He takes so long in the kitchen that I stand up, creeping toward the entrance to peek in. I find him frantically texting on his cell phone, and my heart drops. If he’s messaging another woman, so help me. I’ll officially lose it. I can’t take another cheater.
Mack glances up, catching me staring. He looks furious, and it puts a cold shiver down my spine. Maybe Felicity was right. Perhaps I should have vetted this man more thoroughly. Maybe I should leave now before things get any weirder.
But my gut nudges me to relax, give him a chance to adjust to my presence before I make any rash decisions. After all, finding a rugged, though secluded, cowboy mountain man capable of writing love letters isn’t something that happens every day.
Perhaps he deserves a little more leeway as a sensitive, emotional warrior poet. “Is something the matter?” I ask gently.
He shakes his head, his face hard. “Just texting a friend of mine. My AA sponsor. The bastard backstabbed me. Something I never expected.”
“Oh,” my hand goes to my mouth. A wave of sadness washes over me as I stare at this hulking man, obviously in the throes of some betrayal. And from his AA sponsor, no less? I can’t imagine. “I’m sorry to hear that. Would you like to talk about it?”
He shakes his head, crossing his arms over his chest. In this pose, the massive mountain man looks like a redheaded version of Thor without the dumbass costume or the hammer. I notice a scar running across his left cheek, wondering what other injuries he may have incurred from his time in the service.
While he never spoke much about it in his emails, I can tell, even on a first meeting, that this man is all warrior. Brave, fierce, deadly.
“Suffice it to say, he dragged me into something without my foreknowledge, and I’m going to pay the price for it for a long, long time. Maybe forever.” His voice softens unexpectedly over the last sentiment as he eyes me warmly. “You’re so fucking beautiful, it hurts me to look at you, Callie.”
Finally, a slight peek at the man from the letters. My cheeks burn, and I timidly drop my eyes to the cabin floor before forcing myself to meet his gaze.
You’re a twenty-three-year-old woman, Callie. Time to stop acting like a grade schooler with a crush.“Thank you,” I say confidently. Swallowing loudly, I add, “You’re gorgeous, too, you know. Even more … handsome in person than any picture could do justice.” At the last second, I swap “mouthwatering” for “handsome,” trying to play it cool.
He removes his hat, stabbing his hand into his scarlet locks before replacing it. I wonder what my fingers would feel like running through his vibrant curls. Contrasting the red is olive-complexioned skin, no doubt from his Latin side. In emails, he briefly mentioned being biracial, half-Scottish and half-Mexican. The combination is arresting.
Clawing my thoughts back to something other than fifty ways to taint and be tainted by this man, I pant. “What about that sweet iced tea?”
“Oh, yeah.” His face looks sheepish as he locks the phone’s screen, setting it on the kitchen counter and rummaging through a cabinet for two sturdy glasses with blue stripes. Mack fills both cups with ice from the door dispenser before retrieving a glass pitcher from the fridge and filling them.
“Thank you,” I say, closing the distance to grab a sweating glass. He reaches for the same one simultaneously, and our fingertips brush. Electrical sparks arc between us as I watch his eyes darken two shades, from turquoise to a deep teal like theGulf on a stormy day. His nostrils flare, and his breath comes faster than it should.
For my part, I pant like a marathon runner, though I don’t know why.
Couldn’t we put whatever misunderstanding is going on between us aside in the name of a good, old-fashioned afternoon delight?
