Page 8 of The Mountain Man's Mail Order Temptation
He watches me while I finish cooking.
I can’t read the expression on his face, which is for the best.
“How is it that you have a cheese knife but only one bowl and a handful of plates?” I ask after going through every cupboard in the kitchen. I found spoons in a different drawer from the forks, two mismatched mugs, and a spatula that might be from the 1950s.
“It works better than my Ka-Bar.”
Is that a soft teasing I hear beneath the growl? He’s leaning one hip against the countertop a few feet away, not smiling. I’m not sure he knows how. But there’s a glint in his eye that could almost be warmth. I’m afraid to hope.
“So, the combat knife is for the steaks?”
“Something like that. The rest was left by the last owner. I don’t need much.”
He says those last words like he believes them. But are they true? There’s so much loneliness surrounding him, like he holds himself away from others intentionally.
“Where did you learn to cook?” he asks as I ladle soup into the mugs. With only one bowl, I had to get creative.
“My mom taught me how to make grilled cheese when I was ten so she wouldn’t have to worry about feeding me if she and dad were out late. After that, it was cookbooks and YouTube.”
“And drug dealing grill masters.”
I flash him a grin. “That’s why I’m a better baker. Less jail time.”
He shakes his head like he’s not sure what to make of me.
“You were in the military?” I set the soup and sandwich down for him at the small dining table, then grab my own and take the chair next to his.
He sits with what seems like extreme caution, assessing me.
“Yes.”
Silence follows. “What branch?”
One eyebrow quirks, but he doesn’t answer.
“Have you lived here long?”
He takes a bite of his sandwich and shakes his head.
“Do you want to know anything about me?” I ask in a soft voice. If possible, he seems even more withdrawn.
He doesn’t meet my eyes. So it’s not that much of a surprise when he simply says, “No.”
But oh, it hurts.That one word extinguishes the flicker of hope I’d been holding onto—that maybe, just maybe, I could change his mind. That maybe I could be enough.
Instead, it’s a reminder that he doesn’t want a wife. Especially not me.
We finish eating in silence. I take the dishes to the sink, intending to clean up from dinner. I can at least be useful for the few hours I have left here.
His chair scrapes against the floor, and I feel him approach from behind. He lingers a few moments, close enough to feel his heat.
I don’t look back. I can’t.
Anson touches my shoulder gently. I feel his thumb swipe slowly over my skin as he eases me aside. “I’ll do them. You’re taking the bed. Sheets are changed.”
“I’m not taking your bed. I’ll be fine on the couch.”
“You are. No arguments.”
