Page 7 of Tracked By the Mountain Man
"Turn here," she says softly, pointing toward a narrow road that leads to the old Victorian house on Maple Street.
I know the place, a Bed and Breakfast. Three stories of gingerbread trim and wraparound porches, the kind of house that looks like it belongs in a fairy tale. The kind of place Katie would have loved and photographed from every angle.
"Thank you," Leah says, her hand on the door handle. "For everything today. For finding me, for listening, for..." She trails off, color rising in her cheeks.
"For kissing you back?" I supply, unable to keep the smile out of my voice.
"For not making me feel crazy for wanting that."
The honesty in her voice does something to my chest. I turn off the engine and face her fully. "Leah, nothing about today has been crazy. Complicated, maybe. But not crazy."
She nods, but doesn't move to get out. We sit in the truck cab, the space between us charged with unfinished business.
"I should let you get some rest," I say finally, though every instinct screams against walking away from her.
"Should you?" Her voice is soft, questioning.
"Yeah. You've had a hell of a day, and tomorrow."
"Tyler." She turns in her seat to face me, and the want in her eyes nearly undoes me. "I know you think I'm not thinking clearly. And maybe I'm not. But I know what I want right now."
"What do you want?"
"You. Not to stay the night necessarily, but," She takes a shaky breath. "Don't leave yet. Please."
I should say no. Should stick to my guns about her emotional state, about taking things slow, about doing this right. But the plea in her voice, the way she's looking at me like I'm something precious she's afraid to lose breaks through every rational objection I have.
"Okay," I say quietly. "I'll walk you up."
The B&B is quiet as we climb the front steps, most guests already settled in for the evening. Mrs. Clarke appears in the parlor doorway as we enter, her face creased with concern.
"Leah, dear! I was so worried when your car was towed back this afternoon. Are you all right?"
"I'm fine, Mrs. Clarke. Just got a little lost on the trail. Tyler here found me and made sure I got back safely."
Mrs. Clarke's eyes dart between us, taking in our rumpled hiking clothes and the way we're standing just a little too close. Her expression shifts to something knowing and approving. She doesn’t say anything as we go upstairs to Leah’s room.
The Wildflower Room is exactly what I'd expect from Mrs. Clarke— flowered wallpaper and antique furniture, with a large four-poster bed dominating the space. French doors open onto a small balcony overlooking the garden.
Leah sets her pack down and turns to face me, suddenly nervous. The easy intimacy from the truck has been replaced by awkward awareness of the bed between us.
"This is weird, isn't it?" she says with a nervous laugh. "I don't usually invite men to my room after meeting them on hiking trails."
"I don't usually accept," I admit. "Actually, I don't usually meet women on hiking trails who've been missing for eight hours."
"Your job must be interesting."
"It has its moments."
We're making small talk to avoid acknowledging the elephant in the room—the fact that we both want something we're afraid to name. The kiss in the meadow was healing, cathartic. This feels different. More intentional.
"I should shower," Leah says suddenly. "I probably smell like a wilderness rescue."
"You smell like pine trees and fresh air," I tell her honestly. "But a shower sounds good."
She disappears into the small bathroom, and I hear the water start. I should leave now, while she's occupied and I can still think clearly. Instead, I move to the French doors and step onto the balcony.
Darkmore spreads out below me in the gathering dusk. Lights twinkle in windows, smoke rises from chimneys, families settle in for the evening. Normal people living normal lives, not standing on a stranger's balcony wrestling with attraction and grief and the dangerous desire to comfort each other in the most intimate way possible.
