Page 7 of Trusting the Grumpy Mountain Man
I take them reluctantly. "Where's the bathroom?"
"Outhouse is twenty yards behind the cabin." His lips twitch at my expression of horror. "Calm down, I’m only joking. Bathroom is through there, and there's a privacy screen in the bedroom."
As I retreat to change, I hear him moving around the main room, speaking quietly to Kevin. Despite my discomfort and professional concerns, I can't help noticing how the teenagers respond to him. They're wary, but there's respect there, too. Maybe even trust.
It complicates my evaluation. On paper, everything about this program violates regulations. In practice, I'm seeing glimpses of what might be genuine progress with kids the system has failed repeatedly.
But regulations exist for a reason. My job isn't to make exceptions based on good intentions.
I change quickly, rolling up the sleeves and pants legs of the borrowed clothes. They smell like pine and something intoxicating.Him.
I push that thought firmly away. I'm here as a professional, not a woman noticing a man. Even if that man happens to be the most compelling person I've encountered in my carefully structured life.
Thunder crashes directly overhead, making the cabin shudder. Through the small window, I see trees bending in the wind. The storm has arrived in full force, and with it, my chance to see exactly how Jaxon Reeves handles a real crisis with his charges.
If nothing else, this evaluation just got a lot more interesting.
CHAPTER THREE
JAX
The storm rages outside, wind howling through the pines like a living thing. Rain lashes against the cabin windows in sheets, punctuated by thunder that shakes the foundations. I've seen worse in these mountains, but not much worse.
I stoke the fire in the woodstove, adding another log while Kevin snores on the couch. The kid fell asleep within minutes of getting warm, the day's drama apparently exhausting him.Teenagers.All drama until they crash.
The bedroom door opens, and Riley steps out wearing my clothes. The sight hits me in an unexpected way. My flannel shirt hangs to her mid-thigh, sleeves rolled up multiple times to free her hands. The sweatpants are cinched tight at her waist but still pool around her feet. Her hair is down now, falling in a straight black curtain past her shoulders. Without her professional armor, she looks younger. Softer.
Dangerous thoughts for a man in my position.
"Better?" I ask, returning my attention to the fire.
"Warmer at least." She moves closer to the stove, hands extended toward the heat. "Thank you for the clothes."
"Can't have you filing a report about how I let the social worker freeze to death." I keep my tone neutral despite the joke.
She gives me a sidelong glance. "I'm sure that would violate several regulations."
"Add it to your list." I stand, putting necessary distance between us. "Coffee?"
"Please."
I move to the small kitchenette and prepare the percolator, an old-fashioned contraption that confounds most visitors. While I work, I feel her eyes on me, assessing.
"The landline's dead," I tell her. "Storm must have taken down the lines."
"Of course it did." She sighs, running a hand through her hair. "My supervisor will be concerned when I don't check in."
"Roads will be clear by morning." I set the percolator on the woodstove to boil. "You can file your complaints then."
"My evaluation," she corrects primly. "And you shouldn't assume it will be entirely negative."
This surprises me enough that I turn to face her fully. "No?"
She sits in one of the wooden chairs, looking small and out of place in my clothes. "The program has clear issues with regulatory compliance, but I've seen worse attitudes from the juveniles in state-run facilities. They seem to respect you, at least."
"They respect what I teach them. There's a difference."
"Which is?"
