Page 11 of Her Mountain Man Secret
ISABELLE
I shouldn’t bethis excited. I worked my butt off all afternoon, trying to stay sane and distract myself from Wyatt. But my attempt didn’t last long. Now I’m in his truck, heading back to his place farther up the mountain.
His place.
I feel a thrill of anticipation at the thought of it. We’re only having dinner—the butterflies in my tummy are definitely overkill. But I can’t wait to see where he lives. This mountain man has fascinated me since the minute I set eyes on him, and I’m desperate to know more about his life up here on Cherry Mountain.
After about ten minutes of driving, Wyatt turns right off the mountain road, following a twisty path through the woods. The forest is wilder here than at Ralph’s cabin, vibrant green moss padding the forest floor as we take another right, entering a small clearing. Wyatt’s home is nestled among the trees, a modest-sized log cabin built of honey-colored wood, the roof carpeted with a layer of moss. Yellow wildflowers bloom outside, glinting like tiny gold coins as Wyatt opens the passenger-side door and helps me to the ground.
“This place is magical,” I breathe.
“Thanks, Pixie. Glad you like it.”
The familiar nickname fills me with warmth as I follow him up a stone path toward the front door. I catch the glitter of a lake visible through the trees behind the cabin, twinkling like ground sapphires in the early evening sunlight. My breath catches all over again.
This place is like a fairy tale.
Wyatt opens the door and ushers me inside a cozy living room, filled with plush carpets and plump armchairs. A large window overlooks the turquoise lake, the color shockingly vivid, and for a few moments, all I can do is stare.
I’m definitely not in the suburbs anymore.
“Wow.” It’s all I can say when I finally turn back to face Wyatt. “I mean…wow.”
His lip quirks into a barely there smile, which for Wyatt is like the equivalent of a huge grin. “Cherry Mountain’s pretty special, huh?”
He gestures to an armchair by the window, and I sit down, looking out at the glistening water and the looming mountaintops on the other side of the lake.
“Make yourself at home,” he says. “I’m gonna get started on those burgers.”
“Sounds good.” I look away from the window and smile at him. “Thanks, Wyatt.”
He holds my gaze for a beat too long, and I feel heat creep over my cheeks when I remember that we’re all alone out here, just him and me in the middle of the woods. Something flashes in his eyes, almost like he knows what I’m thinking, and I feel a quiver of longing deep inside me.
God, he’s so handsome.
The flannel shirt he’s wearing can barely contain his burly chest, stretching tight around his shoulders. I’m five-foot-sixwith a big, curvy body, but I bet one of his shirts would still reach my ankles.
He stands there for a moment longer, like he’s about to say something, but eventually he turns around and heads out of the room. He comes back in briefly to hand me a tall glass of lemonade, and after that, it doesn’t take long until he’s back again with an enormous plate of sliders, each topped with bacon and onions. In his other hand, he holds a box with the words “Buttercup Bakery” stamped on the front, a can of Coke balancing on top.
“Dessert,” he says when he sees me looking at the box. Then he gestures to the sliders. “Figured these would be easier to eat outdoors than regular burgers. Thought you might want to sit by the lake.”
I beam at him. “That sounds perfect.”
We head out into the balmy evening. The sun is low in the sky, casting a warm hue over the forest as we walk to the edge of the lake. I sit down on the mossy bank, and Wyatt sets down the plate of sliders beside me, his sleeve rolling up to expose the knotted skin on his arm. It’s not the first time I’ve noticed his scars, and curiosity nags at me as he takes a seat beside me, grabbing a slider.
“Can I ask you something?” I say, my voice so quiet that the lapping water almost swallows it up.
“Happened when I was a firefighter,” Wyatt says matter-of-factly. “Stayed in a burning building too long. My protective gear couldn’t handle it.”
I blink at him. “How did you know I was going to ask?—”
“Saw you notice my scars. Assumed you wanted to know more about them.”
“I’m sorry…”
“I wasn’t criticizing you, Pixie.” Wyatt frowns, his thick brows drawing together like he’s annoyed with himself. “Sorry for being a smartass. I don’t mind you asking questions.”
I smile at his words, then wince when I think about how much it must hurt to be burned so severely.
