Page 2 of Snug with the Mountain Man
She’s on the cabin’s porch, cut-off shorts showing way too much leg, a faded Fall Festival t-shirt knotted at her waist. She’s bent over the porch board like she has a damn clue what she’s doing, tongue caught between her teeth in concentration. Then she brings the hammer down in a clumsy swing that makes my shoulders tense.
The nail bends sideways.
She swears under her breath, shaking out her hand like the tool stung her.
I should’ve known she’d be trouble the second her grandmother called yesterday. “Check on the cabin for me, Ford. My Maisie’s moving in for the fall.” I told her I would, told myself it was just another job. But standing here, watching Maisie fight with a nail she’s got no chance of driving straight, I know better.
I step onto the porch. “Jesus. You trying to punch a hole clean through the ridge?”
She startles, then spins, hair slipping loose around her face. And damn if she doesn’t smile like she’s been waiting for me.
“Well, if it isn’t Ford Kane, Pine Hollow’s resident grump,” she teases. “Here to supervise?”
I cross my arms. “Here to keep you from killing yourself.”
She straightens, hand on her hip like she’s not the least bit embarrassed. “Nice to see you too.”
I crouch, tug the bent nail free, and drop it on the porch. “This board’s rotten. Needs replacing, not another nail.”
She leans back against the railing, crossing her arms under her chest. It pushes her breasts up. I shouldn’t be looking. I force my gaze down, focus on the wood grain.
“I can replace a board,” she says.
“You can’t.” I keep my tone flat. “Not with those tools. Not in those shoes.”
She glances down at her sneakers, white canvas, scuffed. “What’s wrong with my shoes?”
“They’re useless if you slip. They look the same as the ones you wore in high school. You want to fall through a rotted board? Be my guest.”
She tilts her head, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You remember my shoes, do you remember the giant crush I had on you?”
The words hit low. I freeze, hammer in my hand. Maisie’s smile widens at my silence. She knows exactly what she just did.
I force out, “Maisie.”
“Yes, Ford?”
She’s waiting for me to scold her. Waiting for me to admit she’s not a kid anymore. Both would be true. Neither would end well.
She bends over into her trunk, cutoffs riding higher, legs toned from college years I wasn’t around for. I look away too late. My eyes catch the curve of her thighs, the line of her back, and it slams into me that this is Maisie. Little Maisie Carter. All grown. Watching her wiggle around in those damn shorts makes me hard like I’m twenty again.
She sets down a red toolbox at my boots. The thing rattles like a can of bolts.
“Professional as they come,” she says, grinning.
I pop the lid. Empty slots. Hammer too light. Screwdriver worn slick. A mess.
“This isn’t a toolbox,” I mutter. “It’s junk.”
She steps closer, shoulder brushing mine. Her hip presses against me as she leans over the box, pretending she’s interested in the screws. She smells like apples. I grit my teeth.
“Maybe I was just waiting for you to come rescue me,” she says.
Every muscle in my body goes tight. “Maisie.”
“Yes, Ford?”
She plucks a nail, holds it up like it’s proof she’s capable. “See? Supplies. All I need is strong hands and…” Her eyes flick down to my forearm, where my sleeve’s shoved up, veins standing out. “…a little experience.”
