Page 8 of Snug with the Mountain Man
“You all right?”
I nod too fast. “I—I heard something.”
He checks the locks, then moves to the back of the cabin. The flashlight beam cuts across the floor and out through the window. A few seconds later, he’s back, shaking his head. “It might have been a raccoon, but it’s gone now.”
I exhale shakily, sagging against the couch. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” He places the flashlight on the table and shrugs out of his soaked jacket. His shirt clings to him, wet, muscles shifting as he moves. “Place is fine. You just got spooked.”
“I wasn’t spooked,” I lie, wrapping my arms around myself. “Just cautious.”
“Right.” His mouth twitches like he wants to smile but won’t let himself.
I glance toward the fire. The flames are smaller now, fading fast. “It’s cold.”
“I noticed.”
“I tried adding wood, but…”
He crosses to the fire and crouches, stacking logs with efficient movements. When he stands, the light catches the edge of his jaw, the wet curve of his neck.
I look away, pretending to fuss with the blanket on the couch. “You could, you know, stay here until the storm passes. Roads are probably a mess anyway.”
He hesitates. “Maisie.”
“I’m just saying it’s practical.”
He mutters something under his breath, then he sighs, kicks off his boots, and sits beside me.
The couch is small. Our legs touch immediately.
The fire crackles, light flickering over his face. He looks tired.
I tuck my feet under me and pull the blanket higher. He stares into the fire like he’s trying not to notice how close we are.
“Thanks for coming,” I say quietly.
“Wasn’t going to let you sit here scared.”
“I wasn’t scared,” I say again, knowing how weak it sounds.
He glances over, and his voice drops lower. “You were.”
I swallow, my throat tight. “Fine. Maybe a little.”
The rain beats harder on the roof. The fire pops.
He shifts, the couch dipping as he turns toward me. “You ever get tired of pretending you don’t need help?”
“Never.” I smile faintly. “You ever get tired of pretending you don’t care?”
His jaw flexes. “All the time.”
For a long time, neither of us speaks. The air feels heavier, thicker.
“Remember when I was sixteen?” I say finally. “When you found me trying to fix the dock with a bent screwdriver?”
He groans quietly. “Yeah. You hit your thumb and cried for twenty minutes.”
