Page 56 of Grumpy on the Mountain
The sliding door opens and I turn to see him stepping onto the deck, carrying what appears to be the most ridiculous wine service in the history of civilization.
In one hand, he's got a bottle that looks like it survived the war alongside him. Literally. The label is so faded I can't even read it, and there's actual dust coating the glass like it's been sitting in his cabinet since the stone age.
In the other hand, he's carrying two glasses that definitely didn't come from the same set.
One looks like it might have once been part of someone's good china, all delicate curves and what might be gold trim. The other is clearly a jelly jar with cartoon characters on it.
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. "Fancy."
He sets everything down on the small table beside the tub, scowling at the mismatched collection. "I forgot I don't actually drink wine."
"No…" I grin sarcastically. "What do you think gave you away? The dust or the fact that one of those glasses has Bugs Bunny on it?"
"I was distracted," he mutters, uncorking the bottle.
"Distracted by what?" I ask innocently, though my eyes are definitely making a pointed journey toward his crotch, where the evidence of his distraction is still pretty obvious through his jeans.
His jaw ticks. "Your ridiculous strip tease back there. It caught me offguard."
"Ridiculous?" I arch an eyebrow, settling back against the edge of the tub in a way that makes the water lap just below my breasts. "You didn't seem to think it was so ridiculous. In fact, you seemed pretty...appreciative."
The wine sloshes as he pours, missing the fancy glass entirely and splattering onto the deck. "Christ."
I'm grinning and biting my lip form laughing, high on the power of reducing this mountain of a man to clumsy hands and cursing.
"Need help with that?"
"I've got it," he growls, successfully filling both glasses this time. He hands me the jelly jar, keeping the fancy one for himself.
I take a sip and immediately understand why he doesn't drink wine. It tastes like someone mixed grape juice with paint thinner, then aged it in a gym sock.
But I don't care, because Beau is pulling his flannel shirt over his head, and suddenly breathing becomes a secondary concern.
Holy. Fucking. Hell.
I knew he was built—I'd felt those muscles when he kissed me, seen hints of them through his shirts—but seeing him like this, with steam rising around us, is like witnessing a religious experience.
His chest is a masterpiece of hard-earned muscle, with dozens of ridges and powerful curves that speak of years of physical labor. His shoulders are impossibly broad, tapering down to a narrow waist that disappears into low-slung jeans that are about to give me a heart attack.
But it's the ink covering his arms that makes me choke on the terrible wine.
Intricate tattoos sleeve both arms in black and gray, telling stories I can't read but desperately want to learn. Mountain silhouettes wind around his right bicep, while something that looks like coordinates spirals down his forearm. On his left arm, a lone wolf stands beneath a pine tree, surrounded by symbols and dates that feel heavy with meaning.
And the scars…
God, the scars.
They're everywhere. Thin white lines across his ribs, a thick, jagged mark along his left shoulder, smaller nicks and cuts that speak of a life lived dangerously. Each one tells a story of survival, of pain endured and overcome.
"You okay?" he asks, and I realize I'm staring with my mouth open like some kind of sex-starved teenager.
"I'm..." I swallow hard, trying to find words that don't make me sound like a complete lunatic. "You're just..."
He reaches for the button of his jeans, and whatever I was going to say dissolves into incoherent noise.
The denim hits the deck, followed immediately by black boxer briefs, and I'm pretty sure I stop breathing entirely.
Because Beau Callahan is hung like a fucking stallion.
