Page 7 of The Mountain Man's Second Chance Bride
She laughs softly. "You have no idea."
There's something about the way she says it that sends heat coiling low in my belly. Dangerous territory.
I move toward the refrigerator, needing space, but Wynonna's reaching for it at the same time. We collide awkwardly, my larger frame forcing her to step back. She stumbles slightly, and my hands automatically go to her waist to steady her.
Big mistake.
Her skin is warm beneath the thin fabric of her tank top, her waist small enough that my hands nearly span it completely. I can feel her breath catch, see her pupils dilate slightly. For one suspended moment, we're frozen in some tableau of restraint versus desire.
I drop my hands. "Sorry."
"Don't be," she says softly.
I clear my throat and step around her, yanking open the refrigerator door with more force than necessary. The cold air is a welcome relief against my heated skin.
"You never answered my question yesterday," I say, desperate to redirect both our attention. "How exactly did you find me through that service?"
She busies herself chopping herbs, avoiding my eyes. "Lucky coincidence."
"Bullshit." The word comes out harsher than intended. "You used your mother's maiden name. That's deliberate."
Her shoulders tense, then relax with a sigh. "Fine. I was looking for you. Specifically."
"Why?" I turn to face her fully. "It's been ten years, Wynonna."
"And in ten years, I never met anyone who measured up." The simple honesty in her voice knocks me off balance. "Is that what you want to hear? That I compared every man I met to you, and they all came up short?"
"That's not healthy," I say carefully. "Whatever image you've built up in your head."
"Isn't just in my head." She meets my gaze steadily. "I know you, Josiah. Knew you then, know you now."
"You know what you remember. And memories lie."
"Then let me know who you are now." She steps closer, and every instinct tells me to back away, but I hold my ground. "Give me a chance to see the real you, not just my memory."
The request is so reasonable it's hard to argue against. And yet.
"The age gap."
"Is the same as it always was," she interrupts. "Fifteen years. It mattered when I was fifteen and you were thirty. It matters a whole lot less now that I'm twenty-five and you're forty."
Put that way, it's hard to dispute.Still.
"I knew your father."
"And I'm not asking you to forget that." She reaches out, her hand settling lightly on my forearm. "I'm just asking you to see me as I am now, not as the kid I was."
The problem is, I do see her as she is now. All too clearly. And my body's reaction to that sight is getting harder to conceal with each passing hour.
I pull away and turn back to the steaks, needing to focus on anything besides the warmth of her touch. "Dinner's almost ready. Want to grab plates?"
She nods, accepting the change of subject. As she moves to the cabinet where I keep the dishes, a sliver of understanding slides into place. She knew exactly which cabinet. Just like she knew how I take my coffee. How I plant my garden.
How much has she been paying attention to over the years? The question is equal parts flattering and unnerving.
We work around each other preparing the meal, and I catch myself falling into an easy rhythm with her. It's been years since I shared my space with anyone for more than a passing visit, yet with Wynonna, it feels natural. Like she's filling a vacancy I hadn't fully acknowledged.
The realization makes me uneasy. I've spent two decades building this life, this solitude. Carved it from the wilderness with my own two hands, just as my father and grandfather did before me. Made peace with being the last Stone to work this land.
