Page 16 of The Mountain Man's Curvy Surprisem
“How so?” he asks darkly.
“Because we both agreed to no phone or FaceTime. And when your other communications died off … I started thinking the worst.” I allude to the letters and emails again, stuff he doesn’t want to talk about. But there’s no other way to convey my point.
Gesturing for me to follow him, he grabs both of our tea glasses and saunters outside onto the porch. I grab my jean jacket as I pass the coat rack, putting it back on. Being in Rough and Ready Country with Felicity before has taught me to prepare for cooler evenings, even in early August.
Walking towards a large porch swing, Mack nods for me to sit down before taking the spot next to me. He’s such a big man that only a sliver of space exists between our legs. I want more than anything to get rid of it. But it’s a distance he must cross, not me. I’ve already stuck my neck out more than enough by driving here.
Handing me my sweating glass, our fingertips brush again, only this time he doesn’t pull away. Instead, his simmering gaze devours me until my heart hammers so hard against my ribs that I’m certain he can hear it.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice catching in my throat.
“Better out here,” he mumbles, taking a sip of his tea. The air is thick with the sound of crickets, their shrill mating calls a welcome change from the ambient noise of the City, nonstop traffic.
“May I ask you a question?”
“Of course,” I answer, curiosity piqued.
“What made you decide on a mountain man and the whole mail-order bride thing?”
He must be second-guessing everything. I knew it. Clearing my throat, I offer, “If you’re not feeling that next step, no worries. I know it can be weird meeting in person for the first time. The internal fantasy doesn’t always match up with the real person.”
“Is that what you feel with me?” he asks, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his knees, the glass poised in his right hand.
“Looks-wise and chemistry-wise, you’re everything that I hoped for. More so. But I can’t shake the feeling that this all feels really awkward to you.”
He nods.
“I get that you had a difficult childhood and problems with addiction as an adult. Really, I do. But I was hoping you’d act happier to see me.”
“That’s the problem.” He growls.
Why does conversing with this man feel like pulling teeth? As if I must continuously fill in the blanks for him. He’s like a living crossword puzzle.
“The problem? That you’re not happy to see me?”
“The opposite.” He says it firmly, but I still doubt my ears. “You’re amazing in person. Too good to be true.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. I like you far more than I should, Callie.” He runs his free hand over his face. The scratchy sound of his beard unravels my self-control a little more. I squeeze my thighs tightly together, denying my pussy the friction it craves.
“Is that a problem?” This man has me so confused, I don’t know which way’s up or down.
“Could be.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because I’m not the guy who wrote you those letters. I’m Mateo Sebastian McGregor. And I usually go by McGregor, not Mack. Though if that’s what you want to call me, I’m fine with it.”
Again, rehashing stuff I already know about him, apart from preferring “McGregor” as his nickname.What is up with this man?I nod, the corners of my mouth turning down.
I knew early on in our correspondence that Mack is a sensitive man. He’s also someone deeply affected by his emotions and sensitivities. Talking about himself in the third person is nothing new, either. He often did that in his emails and letters, almost as if he could swap the different sides of his personality—romantic, rugged, whimsical, political—like wearing different coats.
We could use a wardrobe change right about now. I’m trying to be understanding, but his moroseness feels too heavy for a first meeting.
“You still haven’t answered my question … about what you were looking for on Mountain Mates.”
“Well, Mateo,” I say, stealing a glance at the grumpy man. Pleasure washes over his face at the sound of his name. “I was looking for something completely outside of my comfort zone.Something wild and totally different than what I’m used to—feral and primitive.”
