Page 7 of Runaway for the Mountain Man
He’s my type. I’m sure of it. Even if he has a few years on me, he checks every box.
This man is making my heart pound like a trapped rabbit every time those dark brown eyes lock onto mine, and right now? He’s looking at me like I’m the only thing in this cramped, dimly lit cabin worth staring at.
Which, frankly, is suspicious as hell.
Sure, I can’t picture him kicking back with some cheesy rom-com I’ve taken a part in, but something’s off. What are the odds I’d get stranded with a six-foot-something mountain man who acts like he’s never shared oxygen with a woman before?
Either he’s lying through those annoyingly perfect teeth, or Mother Nature’s playing a real cruel joke on me by making the storm worse, cementing my place at his side.
If the lights flicker one more time, I’m going to think the power is going to go out.
Anythingcan happen in the dark.
Bentley is making it impossible by building a fire. He’s too busy manhandling logs thicker than his forearms into the fireplace, muscles flexing under his shirt as he wrestles them into submission. His frown is pure concentration, like this fire is the only thing in the world that matters.
He might’ve noticed the goosebumps racing over my skin—might’ve assumed it’s the chill and not the way his stupid, calloused hands make my stomach tighten. As if a man like him would believe he could unravel me in hours.
Then again, maybe I am unhinged. I did flee my own wedding, crash into a stranger’s life like a disaster in white, then help myself to his food, his clothes, and his bed. Hell, I even stole the hot water from his shower like some kind of runaway thief.
Once I’m out of here, I should probably get my head examined.
With the storm sealing us in, right now, crazy doesn’t feel like the worst thing to be. We’re comfortable, soon to be warm.
Biting on the inside of my cheek, I leave his couch and slip over to the window. Looking out at the mess, I grimace.
Did Delilah make it off the mountain okay? If my mother discovered I ran while the makeup artist was still there, she’d probably be accused of being an accomplice of a crime.
God knows the press is already having a field day.“Runaway Bride Leaves Millionaire at the Altar!”
My voicemail is probably a graveyard of frantic damage control from my manager. Questions on why I’ve decided to letthis go on all the way up to the part where I say my ‘I do’. Maybe she’s blown up my email, too.
I drag a hand through my tangled hair. “Hey, do you have a laptop? A phone? Anything I can use to check my email on?”
When I turn, Bentley’s gaze is already on me—steady, unapologetic. Like he’s been watching this whole time. My pulse stutters, traitorous.
Of course. Here I am, fighting a losing battle not to stare, while he does it without a shred of guilt.
“Getting signal up here on a good day is a challenge.” Moving to stand, he pulls out his phone and grimaces at the screen. “The best thing to see on here are the weather warnings, and I don’t think they’re coming in anymore.”
I guess I’ll have to wait to see what kind of disaster comes out of this.
Shoulders sinking, I move through the room to try to find something to entertain myself with. There’s a television on the wall, but if he can’t get a signal to his phone, every device is useless.
The floorboards creak as I drift toward the bookshelf, my fingers trailing over the spines—survival guides, wilderness manuals, a few classics worn soft at the edges. Then my breath catches, but not because of the books.
Three Purple Hearts gleam under the cabin’s dim light, lined up with military precision beside a folded flag—the kind given to families. The kind that means loss. My stomach twists like I’ve been gut-punched.
Bentley’s grunt comes too late, a rough noise of warning. Or maybe regret.
I don’t touch them. My hands fist at my sides instead, nails biting into my palms.
“Yours?” My question is met with another grunt. “How long did you serve?”
A beat too long. His voice is gravelly, low, and deliberate. “Eight years.”
No elaboration. No pride. Just a silence so thick I can almost hear the ghosts in it. If he’s got a flag, I can only imagine the weight behind his answer.
I guess those scars on him come from blades that might not be his own.
