Page 9 of Autumn Feud With The Mountain Man
Brook said, “There she is now. Shelby, let me introduce you to two of thehunkiestsingles that Red Oak Mountain has to offer. This is Hudson and Thatcher.”
Two drop-dead gorgeous men looked over at me, where I stood stunned by the stove. One of them I was already familiar with.
Thatcher elbowed his brother in the ribs and joked, “This one’s mine. I call dibs.”
Brook laughed and flitted out into the backyard, leaving me alone with the men.
Thatcher’s brother laughed and said, “Sounds like you two have already met. I’m Hudson. Nice to meet you, Shelby. If you get tired of him, come find me.” Then he told Thatcher, “I’ll be out back.”
That left me alone with the man who had turned into my nemesis.
He looked just as handsome as always, a worn flannel slung over his thick frame, buttons open, revealing a gray t-shirt underneath. If I didn’t know better, I’d have to assume this was his uniform. All I’d seen him in was jeans and a flannel. I didn’t know if he wore the same clothes every day or if he had multiple versions of the same clothes. But I’d been curious to know.
My cheeks burned hot as we made eye contact. His gaze burned into me, and I tried to start breathing again.
“You look… different,” he drawled in that annoyingly slow way of his, as though he were so relaxed even his words couldn’t come out fast.
His gaze dropped from my eyes, taking a slow stroll across all my curves. I could feel my breasts standing tall, nipples firming under his attention.
Thatcher grinned as he lingered on my cleavage, then meandered his way back up to my eyes again.
Why had I let Brook and Sara talk me into wearing this dress again? It hadn’t bothered me nearly as much until this moment. Now I felt like I was on display for the man.
He stepped forward, one boot invading the six-foot buffer space I needed from the man.
Then he added, “You look… softer. Less vicious.”
I opened my mouth to sling a comeback at him, but it dried in my throat. Was I really trying to convince him that I was vicious?
With a few glasses of wine in me, that was the last thing I wanted to be.
“I’m not vicious,” I said too softly for my own taste.
His lips quirked up even higher, and I noticed his dimples for the first time. They were almost hidden by his thick beard and I wanted to step closer to inspect them. But I resisted the urge.
“Of course you’re not vicious. You’re a pussycat, right? A sweet little pussycat straight from New York City. I hear they breed women soft and sweet over there.”
He took another step forward, clearly too close now. Then his voice dropped down an octave, somehow going even lower than before. “Are you a soft and sweet kind of woman, Shelby Mitchell?”
I gasped. “How do you know my name?”
Thatcher licked his lips, a subconscious reflex I was sure, but one that made me want to close the distance between us and see how his mouth tasted.
He rumbled, “I asked around, sweetheart. It’s not every day that a woman like you rolls into the Ozarks.”
Would he taste like wild woods and feral lands? Would he taste like a mountain man? All muscle and strength?
I wasn’t sure how I’d ever thought I could best the man. He was obviously in charge. He’d always been in charge. I felt myself bending to his will, even without any words.
My lips parted, and I let myself fall under his spell.
His eyes danced over me, and he drawled out, slow and steady, “We should leave the party and … get to know each other better. I can tell you’d like that.”
Thatcher was presumptuous.
And arrogant.
And entirely right.
