Page 4 of Snug with the Mountain Man
“That tracks,” Bonnie says dryly. “He’s got two tones: grumble and growl. Don’t let it get to you.”
“Does he try to scare off everyone or just me?”
Her smile tilts, sly. “Just you. You’ve always had him wrapped around your little finger, whether he liked it or not.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “That is not true.”
“Oh, it is,” Bonnie says, amused. “I remember you sitting on my bed at sixteen, doodlingMaisie + Fordin your notebook.”
I groan. “You remember way too much.”
“That’s what friends do.” She hooks her arm through mine, tugging me down the aisle. “Don’t bother denying it, Maisie. I’ve got eyes. He never looked at you like a kid, not even back then. He—” She pauses, searching for the right words. “He just didn’t let himself look too long.”
I swallow hard, trying to focus on the shelves of jam instead of her words.
“Anyway,” Bonnie says, bumping her shoulder into mine, “I’m glad you’re back. Don’t hide out in that cabin forever. Meet me at the bakery tomorrow, okay? We’ll get coffee. And gossip.”
“Promise.”
By the time I leave, it feels like half the town already knows I’m back, and half of them are whispering about Ford Kane being spotted at my grandmother’s place.
That night, the cabin is quiet again. Groceries are put away, and a pot of soup is cooling on the stove.
I wash dishes in the little sink, humming to myself. I set my phone on the counter and put on music. A steady beat fills the space, low and warm, pushing back the loneliness.
I pour a glass of wine and let myself move with it. First, I just swayed, then let my arms and hips loosen. Bare feet on the old wood floor, hair tumbling out of its knot. I laugh at myself, but I don’t stop.
The fire in the stove glows. The windows reflect pieces of me—flushed cheeks, bright eyes, my t-shirt riding up as I raise my arms over my head.
The wine makes me bolder. I slide my hands down my sides, over the curve of my hips, let the music drag me slower, heavier. My body feels good. Alive in a way it hasn’t been for a long time.
I spin—and freeze.
Outside the window, in the dark beyond the porch light, a figure stands perfectly still. Ford.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t look away when my eyes lock on his. Arms crossed over his chest, shoulders filling the pane, face carved in shadow.
My breath stutters. Heat floods me, sharp and low. I should pull the curtains. Grab a sweater. Pretend I didn’t see him.
Instead, I keep moving, slower this time. My hand lingers at the hem of my shirt, tugging it a little higher as I tip my glass back for a sip. I turn deliberately, showing him the line of my back, the sway of my hips.
The air between us hums—my skin prickles, every nerve aware of him watching.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.
My pulse pounds in my ears. I lean against the counter, arching slightly, and smile faintly into my wine like this isn’t crazy. Like I don’t care that he’s watching.
But I do. God, I do.
Finally, his mouth shifts like he might say something. Then he turns, steps off the porch, and vanishes into the night. The silence slams back into the cabin. My pulse doesn’t slow.
My soup cools, untouched, and when I crawl into bed later, I can still feel his eyes on me.
Chapter four
Ford
The first flash of lightning cuts through the trees just after dusk. A second later, thunder rolls off the ridge and shakes the workshop window. I glance up from the workbench at the dark stretch of road that winds toward the Carter cabin.
