Page 9 of Stone Cold Mountain Man
“Part of living up here,” I tell her, though my voice is rougher than I intend.
She keeps working, gentle but efficient, taping a small bandage across a cut near my jaw. Each brush of her fingers leaves a tiny spark in its wake. I remind myself she’s just patching up a neighbor, not trying to set fire to the air between us.
“All done,” she announces finally, leaning back with a pleased look.
“Appreciate it,” I say, pushing to my feet before I get caught staring somewhere I shouldn’t. “Make yourself at home while I clean up. Won’t take long.”
I head down the hall, ducking into the bathroom. The shower is quick—soap, rinse, out. I pull on a clean shirt and fresh jeans,trying not to think about how fast my heartbeat was the whole time.
When I come back, she’s standing by the shelf near the fireplace, studying the wooden figurines lined up there. Small bears, a fox, a curled-up lynx. Pieces I carve on long winter nights when the silence gets too heavy.
She bends to look closer at the one I’ve been working on—a tiny succulent with carved leaves, still rough around the edges.
Before she can pick it up, I cross the room and cover it with a folded cloth.
Her eyes flick up, curious.
“Work in progress,” I say, a little too fast.
“Fair enough.” A smile tugs at her mouth, but she doesn’t push.
I clear my throat, suddenly aware of how close we’re standing. “You ready to eat?”
She nods, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. The simple gesture does something to my ribs I don’t want to examine.
I gesture toward the table, now smelling like baked cheese and barbecue sauce. “Grab a seat. I’ll get plates.”
As I set the dishes out, I catch her glancing at the covered carving again, then back at me. There’s a question in her eyes, one I’m not ready to answer—not yet.
For now, there’s dinner, and the quiet thrum of something building between us that I can’t name, but can’t quite ignore either.
7
Taylor
Dinner with Wade isn’t at all how I imagined it.
It’s quieter, sure, but not in an awkward way. He listens while I talk, steady and calm, like every word I say is worth the space it takes up.
I tell him about moving from the city, about how Cedar Ridge Cabin was supposed to be a reset button. How I wanted to build something that was just mine, even if I had no idea what I was doing when I signed the papers. He doesn’t interrupt, just nods now and then, eyes on me instead of the clock or his plate.
“And then,” I say, laughing, “The realtor swore the place was ‘turn-key.’ Apparently, that meant ‘turn the key and hope the door doesn’t fall off its hinges.’”
A smile ghosts across his face — quick, almost shy, but there.
I finish my story and glance down, suddenly aware of how quiet the cabin has gotten. Wade is looking at his empty plate, then at mine.
“You’re not hungry?” he asks.
I blink at the untouched casserole on my plate and chuckle. “Guess I’ve been too busy running my mouth.” Heat crawls up my neck. “Sorry.”
His gaze holds steady, warm in a way I haven’t seen before. “Don’t apologize for talking.” He leans back in his chair. “Not to me.”
Something in my chest loosens at that. Maybe I’m not too much after all. Maybe I’m just right if they are the right person.
He pushes back from the table, the chair legs scraping softly over the floor. As he carries his dish to the sink, he pauses, looking out the window.
“Snow,” he says, voice low.
