Page 22 of Mated to the Mountain Bear
Fucking Beau.
7
ZARA
Ibarely slept.
Every time I closed my eyes, I could feel Ben’s wrist under my fingers again. Could hear my sleep-thick voice begging him to stay. See the flash of something raw and hungry in his eyes before he shut it down.
He thought I wanted him.
The worst part? For a moment, I think I did.
Weak morning light creeps through the thin curtains, painting the wooden walls gold. I’ve been staring at the ceiling for hours, replaying that moment in my head. The way he froze when I grabbed him. The warmth of his skin, and those chocolate brown eyes so close to mine. His lips…
But he pulled away when he realised it wasn’t him I was thinking of.
I need to do something. The embarrassment is eating me alive and lying here won’t help.
The cabin is quiet when I slip out of Ben’s room. I pause in the hallway, listening, but it’s perfectly quiet. And the living room is empty, with Ben’s pillow and blanket neatly folded onone end of the couch. He’s already up and gone, doing his morning check of the property.
In the kitchen, I survey the space. The lack of any distraction allows my thoughts to run wild. Was he going to stay? Would he have climbed into the bed beside me because I asked, or because he wanted to?
Groaning in anguish at the potentially awkward situation that’s all of my own making, I rest my palms on the countertop and hang my head between my arms. We’re stuck up here, alone together, but I had to make it weird.
Maybe I can make breakfast? A peace offering. An apology without having to actually explain that, for one confused moment, I forgot where I was, and who I was with.
But I didn’t hate the idea of him staying. Quite the opposite, actually.
Deciding I’d rather take my own eyeballs out with a spoon than have that excruciating conversation, I start the coffee first, moving gingerly. My sore foot is getting better, but it’s not completely healed yet.
The machine gurgles to life, filling the kitchen with its rich aroma. While it brews, I search through his small refrigerator. Eggs. Bacon. Bread for toast. Simple enough.
The cast iron pan is heavy when I lift it onto the stove. Everything in this kitchen speaks of durability, of a man who buys things once and expects them to last. No fancy gadgets other than the coffee machine.
I crack eggs into a bowl, whisking them carefully. The bacon goes into the hot pan with a satisfying sizzle. As I cook, I try to focus on the simple task, but my mind keeps wandering.
Is he avoiding me after last night? Maybe, but I’m the one who should be embarrassed.
The morning sun streams through the windows, catching the dust motes dancing in the air as I plate the eggs and arrange thebacon in neat lines, then cut the toast into triangles. I even add a sprig of herbs from the windowsill garden as garnish. If I can’t explain myself with words, maybe I can show him I’m trying.
Beau said he was a loner, but he’s coping admirably well with having his space invaded.
The front door opens, and my heart jumps.
Ben steps inside, pausing when he sees me at the stove. He’s been outside long enough for the morning cold to cling to him. His dark hair is slightly mussed from the wind. A dark henley doesn’t seem enough to keep him warm in the crisp morning air, but I’m not complaining. The fitted shirt shows off his broad pecs and bulging biceps to perfection.
“Morning,” I offer tentatively. “I made breakfast.”
He stands there for a moment, taking in the scene. The set table. The waiting plates. Me, hovering nervously by the stove in yesterday’s clothes. His clothes. There’s no smile. No sign that he’s pleased by what I’ve done. For a second, I think he’s going to turn around and leave.
“I cleaned while cooking,” I continue, noticing his survey of the space. The familiar urge to fill silence with words takes over. “Your cabinets were pretty dusty, so I washed everything. Then I reorganized to be more efficient. The mugs are closer to the coffee maker now, and...”
He moves past me, searching for something, opening one cabinet, then another. His jaw tightens with each wrong guess.
“What are you looking for?” I ask, voice smaller now. This was a terrible idea.
“My mug.”
