Page 21 of Wrong Number, Right Mountain Man
Her hand covers mine where it rests against her face. “What happened? With your marriage?”
The question I’ve been avoiding for weeks. But here, with her warm and real against me, the answer comes easier than expected.
“We wanted different lives.” I lead her to the couch, keeping her hand in mine. “I wanted family, roots, a place to build something lasting. She wanted career advancement, city life, and constant movement.”
“And you couldn’t compromise?”
“We tried. For fifteen years.” The memories surface of many arguments about relocating, postponed family plans, schedules that never aligned. “I followed her to three cities, built and sold two houses. Put my dreams on hold because there was always another promotion, another opportunity.”
“That couldn’t have been easy.”
“It wasn’t.” My thumb traces the soft skin of her wrist. “The final straw was a job offer in London. Executive position, everything she’d worked for. I told her I couldn’t do it again, couldn’t uproot one more time.”
“So she left.”
“She left.” The words still hold an echo of pain, but duller now. “Didn’t even look back. Said I was holding her back, that she’d wasted years compromising her potential.”
Sunny’s free hand finds my face, fingers gentle against my beard. “She was wrong.”
“Was she?” The question that’s haunted me for years. “Maybe if I’d been more supportive, more willing to change—”
“No.” Her voice is firm. “Relationships need balance. You can’t keep bending until you break.”
Something in her certainty eases a knot in my chest that’s been there so long I’d forgotten it existed.
“What about you?” I ask. “Your ex. Josh.”
Her expression clouds. “That was different. Josh didn’t want me to succeed. He wanted me small, manageable. Every time I talked about the food truck, he had ten reasons why it wouldn’t work.”
My jaw tightens. “Sounds like an asshole.”
She laughs, but it lacks humor. “He was. But I didn’t see it until he was gone.” Her eyes meet mine. “Not until I started talking to you and realized what support actually feels like.”
My hand slides to the back of her neck, pulling her closer until our foreheads touch. “Your food truck is going to happen. And it’s going to be amazing.”
“You believe that.” Wonder colors her voice.
“I do.” I brush my lips against hers gently, asking permission.
She answers by pressing closer, her mouth soft and warm against mine. The kiss deepens, her hands finding their way into my hair as mine span her waist, pulling her onto my lap.
The feel of her weight settling against me breaks whatever restraint I had left. My hands slip under the flannel shirt she’s wearing, finding the warm skin beneath. She gasps into my mouth when my fingers trace up her ribcage.
“Beck,” she whispers against my lips.
“Hmm?” I can barely form words with her shifting on my lap, her thighs straddling mine.
“Last night you said we should wait until I’m ready.” Our gazes connect, and her eyes are dark with desire but clear with certainty. “I’m ready.”
Those two words send heat coursing within me. My hands tighten on her hips, pulling her more firmly against me so she can feel what she does to me.
“Are you sure?” I ask, needing to hear it.
In answer, she takes my hand and guides it higher under her shirt, until my palm cups her breast. The soft weight of her fills my hand, her nipple hardening against my palm.
“I’ve been sure since the first time we talked on the phone,” she says, voice catching as my thumb circles her nipple. “I’ve been imagining your hands on me for weeks. Your mouth on my skin. Your body on top of mine.”
The admission breaks something loose in me. I capture her mouth with mine, pouring weeks of longing into the kiss. Her body arches against me, seeking more contact, more pressure.
