Page 5 of Snug with the Mountain Man
She’s up there alone.
I tell myself not to worry. Maisie’s fine. She’s always been fine, smart mouth, sharp mind, stubborn streak a mile wide.
Still, when the power in my shop blinks once, twice, then dies, I’m already grabbing my jacket.
Rain comes down in sheets by the time I reach the truck. Wipers slap a steady rhythm against the windshield, useless against the blur. The drive up is all mud and leaves. Trees lean heavily over the narrow road, the headlights carving out just enough space for me to keep moving.
When I finally pull up at her place, the porch light is out. A candle flickers behind the window. My pulse quickens as I think about what I saw through these windows the night before.
I climb the steps and knock once. The door creaks open before I can call her name.
Maisie stands there barefoot, wearing an oversized sweater that hangs off one shoulder, her legs bare and pale against the dark floorboards. Her hair is down, a little messy and wild.
“Power’s out,” she says, voice soft, casual, like she’s not the reason I’m standing here drenched to the skin.
“Yeah. Thought it might be. Lines on this side of the ridge go fast when the wind hits.”
She leans against the frame, studying me. Candlelight dances on her skin, gold against the storm behind me. “You came to check on me?”
“I was in the area.”
Her mouth twitches. “You live ten miles down the mountain, Ford.”
“Still counts.”
She steps aside, opening the door wider. “You might as well come in before you drown.”
Inside, it smells like apples and smoke. The fire burns low, candles scattered across the mantle and table. She’s got a half-empty glass of wine sitting by the sink, and the soft crackle of fire fills the silence between us.
“You good?” I ask.
“Perfect.” She grabs the wine bottle and pours another glass. “You look like you need one of these.”
“I’m fine.”
“You always say that.” She hands me a glass anyway, her fingers brushing mine, and my body reacts before my brain does.
“Maisie—”
“Relax, it’s just a drink. You can stand there and scowl while I sit over here.” She drops onto the couch, tucking her legs under her. The candlelight paints her skin in soft golds and shadows, sweater slipping a little lower down her shoulder.
I take the chair across from her. I need the distance.
“Wasn’t scowling,” I mutter.
She grins over the rim of her glass. “You were. You always do when you’re overthinking.”
“Maybe I just don’t like storms.”
“That’s not it.” She studies me, eyes steady, smile fading into something quieter. “You came because you didn’t want me to be alone.”
I take a long sip of wine. “Storm’s bad. Didn’t want you losing heat.”
Her eyes soften. “That’s sweet.”
“It’s practical.”
“Uh-huh.” She tilts her head, watching me. “You ever get tired of pretending you don’t care?”
