Page 25 of Mated to the Mountain Bear
I attack the dishes with renewed determination, then move on to wiping counters that are already clean. Anything to keep my hands busy. To keep my mind off the memory of his skin under my fingers, and the taste of honey and salt on my tongue.
A few minutes later, my hands are still shaking as I dry the last plate.
The morning started as an attempt to apologise, to make things normal between us. Instead, I’ve made everything infinitely worse. And now, he’s fled his own home to get away from me.
Maybe I should ask him to take me back to town, stalker or no stalker.
Surely, facing a dangerous ex-boyfriend would be less mortifying than whatever this is becoming.
But even as I think it, I know I won’t. Because despite everything, despite the embarrassment and the awkwardness and my complete inability to act normal around him, I feel safer here than I have in weeks.
I like Ben.
And that terrifies me almost as much as anything else that’s going on in my life, because what kind of horrible person spends her days falling for some guy she barely knows instead of focusing on finding her missing sister?
Time passes. I try to read, but the words on the page swim and blur together. The cabin feels too quiet without Ben’s presence, too empty. I find myself straining to hear any sound of him outside, wondering what he’s doing and if he’s okay.
When I can’t stand it anymore, I move to the window. He’s out by the treeline, pacing, and still shirtless despite the cool morning air.
I should look away… I don’t.
Instead, I watch the play of muscle under his skin, the way his jeans ride low on his hips, and the focused intensity of his expression. He’s beautiful in a raw, primal way that makes my stomach flutter.
As if sensing my gaze, he pauses and looks directly at the window. Our eyes meet across the distance, and when his nostrils flare, my breath catches.
Something shifts in his expression, and he turns, stalking toward the forest and disappearing into the trees without so much as a backward glance.
Anxiety crawls up my spine. Did I upset him that much? The rational part of my brain says he’s probably just doing another of his obsessive searches for tracks. But the rest of me, the part still reeling from this morning’s disasters, whispers that he’s trying to get as far away from me as possible.
I turn from the window and survey the kitchen again. Maybe if I put everything back where it was, he’ll forgive my presumption? But as I open cabinets, I realize I don’t remember the original organization.
Was his special mug on this hook or that one? Were the plates high or low?
The futility of it hits me, and I sink back onto the couch. I can’t undo this morning any more than I can undo grabbing him last night. All I can do is try to be less of a disaster for whatever time I have left here.
I pull the throw blanket over my legs and close my eyes, trying not to think about the honey on his thumb or the feel of him, thick and hard, against my palm.
An hour passes. Maybe two. The sun climbs higher, warming the cabin, but Ben doesn’t return.
I’ve reorganized the bookshelf twice, first by genre, then alphabetically by author. I’ve dusted surfaces that were already clean and swept the floor, anything to keep busy.
I’m reaching for a high hook, trying to return the cast iron pan I used earlier, when my sleeve catches the edge of the pot rack that’s hanging above the kitchen island. The whole thing tilts, and before I can steady it, cookware crashes down in a deafening cascade.
I drop to my knees, frantically trying to catch them, to stop the awful noise, but I shriek when a stockpot bounces off the island, narrowly missing my head. A skillet clangs against another, the sound ringing through the cabin like a bell tower.
“Shit, shit, shit.”
I’m on all fours, gathering up the pots, when the front door swings open with enough force to rattle the windows.
Ben stands in the doorway now, chest heaving and eyes wild.
And he’s completely, utterly naked.
My position on the floor puts me at the perfect height to see absolutely everything. The broad expanse of his chest, still gleaming with perspiration. The trail of dark hair leading down past his navel. And below that...
Oh. My. God.
I was right. He’s substantial everywhere, it seems. Swollen and heavy, and responding to the adrenaline, or maybe, it’s the way I’m staring, with my mouth open and a saucepan clutched forgotten in my hand.
