Page 7 of Comforted By The Mountain Man
Oh, and yeah. Again. I was naked. And wet. Not the good kind.
Picking Ryder up from the barstool, I walk over and ignore the flutter in my chest that wants to appreciate how well this man fills out a basic white tee.
Nope. We’re closed for business. You hear, Miss Va-Jay Jay?
Good-looking mountain men are even worse! Their looks trick you into ignoring all the red flags. And clearly, all I know how to do is walk into them. It’s a terrible thing to be twenty-four and lose trust in your own judgment.
I stand at the door, frozen with indecision. He can see us, even through the mosaic glass. Ryder tucks his head into my shoulder but waves with the arm holding his Hulk plushy.
The man’s face is granite. His heavy, dark brows furrow over deep green eyes that last night I noticed had gold flecks in them. His short, dark hair is messy as if he woke that way and didn’t bother to style it.
I can’t explain it, but my hesitation feels bigger than the fear of danger. Opening this door is the beginning of something. Someone officially knowing I inhabit a place in this small town. A witness. But also, a deep desire to have someone to run to for safety. Which is the kind of dangerous thinking that got me here in the first place.
Patiently, this man, Asher, waits for me to make a decision, even though the door doesn’t latch closed anymore, so technically, he can just push his way in. The chair I wedged under the doorknob is barely a deterrent.
I remove the chair and pull open the front door.
Cautiously, I say, “Morning.”
“Good morning.” His gruff voice is barely audible.
“You’re big,” Ryder exclaims from my shoulder.
“Ryder,” I reprimand. “Manners. Say good morning to Mr. Hunter.”
“Asher,” my neighbor insists, studying my son.
“Do you like Hulk?” Ryder sticks his plushy out into Asher’s face.
“Sorry,” I say, stepping back. “Please, come in.”
Ryder gets wiggly, and truth be told, he’s getting too big to hold anymore. I set him down and run to the stove, forgetting I left the oatmeal cooking.
“Shit.” I rush the burning pot off to another cool burner.
“Bad word, Mama!” I hear behind me.
“Sorry, baby,” I call out, distracted and pissed that I just let precious food go to waste.
“Me cago en na,” I curse.
Second nature bad habit I picked up from my Puerto Rican father. Aggressively, I drop the burned pot into the sink. The sink without running water, which I forgot, again, after trying to fill up said pot before everything sticks.
The same overwhelming defeat from last night rushes up my body, threatening another breakdown, which I can not afford. For more reasons than one. Leaning at the sink, I take deep breaths, controlling the heat flooding my eyes.
“I brought egg sandwiches, if that’s okay,” his deep voice says, too close. “I figured, with the water off, you guys were limited on options this morning.”
Now, I’m actually about to cry. I can’t trust this stranger’s kindness. But my son needs to eat.
Facing the room, Ryder looks up at my neighbor, already with hero worship, which is so bad. Asher’s brawny frame stands, ever watchful, too watchful. And somehow, he exudes calm. I berate myself for wanting to run into his arms and just melt. I want that calm to invade every dark corner that’s been my constant companion, other than the sparks of light my baby boy gives me, keeping me from drowning most days.
“What’s in them?” My voice, barely above a whisper.
Asher watches me for a moment, then nods, walking to the counter by the sink but still keeping a respectable distance. He unwraps them and even opens them to list the ingredients.
“If food allergies aren’t a factor, I kept them simple: eggs, American cheese—from the block, not the overly processed stuff—freshly baked sourdough I toasted with butter on the pan, and that’s it.”
My stomach chooses that moment to grumble loudly, because damn, that sounds, smells, and looks so good.
