Page 11 of Tension with the Mountain Man
"Terrified," I admit. "But I'm not running."
"Good. Because you're mine now, Sally. No taking it back."
five
Tucker
I'vebeenthinkingaboutholding Sally in my arms all day and it's driving me insane.
The way she felt against me, soft and warm and perfect. The little sounds she made when I touched her. The way she whispered "yours" like it was a vow she meant to keep forever.
Mine. The thought is even stronger now, more certain. Sally Jacobson belongs to me in every way that matters, and I belong to her.
I finish my site inspections in record time, eager to get to Sally's place. We've fallen into a routine over the past few days—dinner at her cottage or mine, long conversations that stretch into the night, making love until we're both exhausted and sated. It should feel too fast, too intense, but instead it feels like we're making up for lost time.
When I knock on her door, she answers wearing scrubs, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, looking tired but beautiful.
"Long day?" I ask, pulling her into my arms.
"Two emergency calls, three walk-ins, and Mrs. Henderson came in again claiming she has a rare tropical disease." She melts against me, and I feel her tension start to ease. "She read about it online."
"What was it this time?"
"Something she definitely didn't contract in rural Montana." She pulls back to look at me. "I need a shower and about twelve hours of sleep."
"Shower. I'll make dinner."
"You don't have to."
"I want to." I kiss her forehead. "Go. I'll handle food."
While she showers, I work in her kitchen, making a simple pasta with what she has on hand. It's domestic in a way that should feel strange after years of solitary meals, but instead feels right. Natural. Like this is what I've been missing.
Sally emerges wearing one of my t-shirts and soft pajama pants, her skin pink from the hot water. "That smells amazing."
"It's just pasta."
"It's perfect." She wraps her arms around me from behind while I stir the sauce. "Thank you."
We eat on her couch, Sally tucked against my side, and she tells me about a logger who came in with a minor chainsaw injury—properly treated in the field thanks to my safety protocols, she notes with pride that makes my chest tight.
"You're making a difference," she says. "The men respect you. They follow your rules because they trust you."
"Not all of them."
"Most of them. That matters, Tucker." She sets down her bowl, suddenly looking nervous. "I need to tell you something."
My stomach tightens. "What is it?"
"Vancouver called today. About the trauma position." She's not looking at me, focusing on her hands. "They want an answer by Monday."
The words hit like cold water. "Oh."
"It's an incredible opportunity. The salary is double what I make here. State-of-the-art facilities, a whole trauma team under me..." She trails off.
"Sounds perfect for you."
"It should be." She finally looks at me. "But Tucker, I don't want it. I want this. I want us."
