Page 4 of Rugged Mountain Man
She gives me a wry smile, the corner of her lips curving in a way that makes my pulse kick. “Something like that.”
Her eyes meet mine, lingering, and for a second, it’s like the storm outside doesn’t exist. There’s exhaustion in her gaze, but also trust—something raw and vulnerable that hits me square in the chest. I don’t know how to process it, so I focus on practicalities.
“You’ll need to keep it elevated and stay off it as much as you can,” I say, my tone gruff to cover the way my throat’s suddenly gone dry. “I’ll get some ice and wrap it properly.”
She nods, but her gaze doesn’t leave me, studying me like I’m some kind of puzzle she’s trying to figure out. Her fingers absently toy with the edge of the blanket, and I have to look away before I notice too much. The way her bosom rises and falls as she breathes. The faint flush still lingering on her cheeks. I wonder how she would look…No, Cole don’t go there.
“Thank you, Cole,” she says softly, and the way she says my name—like it means something—damn near undoes me.
“Don’t mention it,” I mutter, heading to the kitchen to grab supplies. I need the space to get my head on straight. She’s here, in my cabin, and I’m already thinking about her in ways I shouldn’t. Ways that don’t end with her walking out of here and back to her city life.
But when I turn back and catch her watching me again, those brown eyes full of something I can’t name, all I can think is one word.
Mine.
“You won’t be able to hike back tonight. Not with the storm and not with that swelling.”
Her lips part, protest already forming, but I cut her off. “Not negotiable. You’ll freeze before you make it halfway.”
She sighs, leaning back against the couch. “Fine. I’ll stay.”
“Where were you staying, exactly?” I ask, grabbing a clean towel and a roll of elastic bandages from a cabinet.
“Sweet Haven Cabins,” she says, watching me. “They were… fine, I guess.”
Figures. Tourists love the place. “I’ll radio in, let them know you’re here. Don’t want them thinking you’re dead in a ditch.”
She blinks, surprise flickering across her face. “You can do that?”
“Course I can,” I say gruffly, walking back to her. “But, first your ankle.”
I kneel in front of her, drying her foot with the towel and cleaning up the blood before wrapping her ankle securely. Herskin is soft under my hands, her leg slim and delicate, and it takes every ounce of restraint I have not to let my touch linger. The faint pink polish on her toes catches my eye again, and for a moment, I wonder what kind of life she has in the city that leaves her looking so polished yet so out of place here.
She doesn’t flinch, though. She just watches me, those big brown eyes locked on my face like I’m the only thing keeping her tethered to reality. Her lips part slightly, her breathing uneven, and it takes everything in me to focus on the damn bandages instead of the heat building between us.
“You’re good at this,” she murmurs, her voice low, almost shy.
“Years of practice,” I reply. “Sprains, scrapes, bruises. You learn to handle a lot living out here.”
Her gaze drops to my hands, and she shivers, though the fire’s warming up the cabin now. “Do you always help strangers like this?”
“No,” I say honestly, tying off the wrap. My thumbs brush her skin one last time, and I feel her tense under the contact. “You’re an exception.”
Her eyes snap back to mine, searching, and for a moment, the air between us feels charged, heavy. Too heavy. I break the tension, standing and heading to the freezer.
“You need ice,” I say, pulling out a small bag and wrapping it in a cloth. My pulse is still pounding, and I don’t trust myself near her right now, but when I turn back, she’s still watching me, biting her bottom lip like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.
I sit down again, pressing the makeshift ice pack to her ankle. She inhales sharply, her chest rising, and my gaze flickers—just for a second—to the curve of her neckline, where her damp shirt clings to her skin. I jerk my eyes back up, but not before I catch the way her cheeks flush.
“Let me get you new clothes.”
“You have some?”
“You can wear something of mine…” She’ll swim in my shirts and sweatpants, but it’s all we’re working with.
I come back into the living room with a long sleeve shirt and grey sweatpants for her. I help her stand, and she wobbles before having to lean into my body.
“Thank you,” she says. I point to the bathroom down the hall and help her to the door. She hesitates, like she might ask me to help her get dressed, but then she thinks better of it and shuts the door. I run my hand through my hair and sigh. What is this girl doing to me? I want to bust through the door just to make sure she’s okay, to help peel those cold, wet clothes off her little body. But I don’t. I don’t know what this is or why I feel this way, but I need to cut it out. When she comes out of the bathroom, she looks stunning, even with my clothes practically drowning her.
