Page 8 of Her Mountain Man Secret
In my peripheral vision, I see Wyatt turn to look at me, hear him say good morning. But I don’t dare glance at him while Dad’s watching me. He’d see my feelings written all over my face.
“Hey, Izz,” Dad says, reaching out to ruffle my hair. “How’d you sleep?”
“Fine,” I lie, smiling at him. “Sorry you had to start without me. I didn’t mean to sleep in so late.”
“That’s okay. Long journey yesterday. I was tired, too.” He sets down his caulking gun. “We were just about to stop for lunch, anyway. Figured we’d grab something from Cherry Hollow.”
Something squeezes in my belly, a mixture of excitement and apprehension. It was too dark to see properly last night, but now I’m finally going to get a good look at the town where I was found. The town my dad is from. It’s just lunch, but it feels like a big deal somehow, and Dad seems to sense the effect of his words because he adds, “That okay with you? We can go somewhere else if you want.”
“No, it sounds great.” I smile at him. “I’d love to see your hometown.”
He nods, patting my shoulder before turning to Wyatt. “Ready to go?”
“Sure.”
We follow Wyatt outside to where his giant truck is parked. He opens the rear door for me, and for the first time this morning, I tilt my head back to meet his gaze. I swear he looks even hotter than yesterday, towering over me like the surrounding mountains. His beard is more red than brown in the sunlight, those light blue eyes burning into me until I swear my heart will crash straight out of my chest. I could stare at him all day, but I’m all too aware of my dad waiting for us in the passenger seat. I scramble up into the truck and Wyatt closes the door behind me. It smells like him in here—sandalwood and musk, with a hint of pine from the forest.
Smells like heaven.
None of us talk much on the way to Cherry Hollow. I look out the window at the looming peaks, jutting up against the forget-me-not blue sky. It’s a sunny August afternoon, sunlight making the trees glow bright green, turning the landscape into a painting as we drive down the mountain. I keep catching Wyatt’s eye in the rearview mirror, my pulse racing with every flash of blue. There’s something conspiratorial about it, like we’re sharing a secret that only the two of us know, and it’s not until we reach the town that I finally force myself to refocus on my surroundings.
Cherry Hollow is gorgeously quaint, lined with historic buildings and colorful facades. We pass a bakery, a pub, and an antique store, all of them decked out with flower boxes, spilling over with pink and yellow blooms. People wander up the wide streets, wearing sun hats and shorts, eating ice creams beneath the glowing midday sun.
“What do you think, Izz?” Dad asks, looking at me over his shoulder.
“It’s so beautiful!” I suck in a breath and add, “Can we see the fire station?”
“Of course.” He turns to face the front, but he reaches his arm back and grabs my hand.
The station is smaller than I imagined, an old brick building with three big bay doors. One of them is rolled up halfway, and I glimpse a bright red fire truck inside. There’s a regular-sized door beside the three bays, and I stare at it as Wyatt lets the engine idle. That must be where I was left all those years ago.
“Still looks the same,” Dad says, squeezing my hand.
I don’t answer. My throat is tight, a million thoughts rushing through my mind. About my birth parents. About what drove them to leave me there. Abandon me. But most of all, I feel a well of gratitude so overwhelming that it makes my eyes burn. Of all the people who could have found me that day, I’m so glad it was Holden Mitchell.
Now I just need to stop being weird about his old best friend.
“You okay, Izz?” Dad asks quietly, his words meant just for me.
I nod. “It’s a lot…but I’m good, Dad. I’m glad we came.”
He gives my hand one last pat before letting go, and we drive away from the fire station, back toward Main Street. We stop at a pizzeria and grab an extra-large cheesy pizza before crossing the road and heading for the river that runs beside the town.
“Sugar Creek,” Dad tells me. “Spent a lot of time swimming out here when I was a kid.”
The three of us sit on the riverbank, Dad and Wyatt on either side of me as we eat our pizza and watch the water drift languidly past. It’s peaceful, but the atmosphere is strained. It’s like Dad and Wyatt don’t know how to act around each other, let alone talk to each other, so I fill the silence with ideas for the cabin, things we can do to spruce it up.
“…and maybe a new mirror in the bathroom? Some new tiles?” I take another bite of pizza. “Blue would look nice, or?—”
The words catch in my throat as Wyatt’s leg brushes mine, our thighs touching for the briefest of moments. The contact is gone as fast as it came, but it was still enough to make me lose the power of speech, and I want to groan in frustration.
What the heck is happening?
Why do I melt into a puddle every time this man is near me?
It’s a stupid question, really. The answer is pretty obvious when I glance at Wyatt from the corner of my eye. He looks gorgeous as ever, his long legs stretched out on the grass in front of him. I catch a glimpse of the scars I spotted last night, pale and puckered against his tanned skin, just visible beneath his sleeve.
Burns from his firefighter days?
