Page 13 of Harvest Brew With the Mountain Man
His expression darkens. “Fire.”
“Oh God. Was anyone hurt?”
“Nah. Thankfully, no one. Had to close the bar down so we can clean up and renovate the east wall. Hoping to reopen for the Fall Festival.”
“Well, if you need any help, let me know,” I offer. It’s the least I can do.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He hesitates at the door, then turns and stands in front of me.
Cupping my cheek, West leans down and kisses the top of my head. My eyes close of their own accord, and I breathe him in deeply. That combination scent that triggers so many memories grounds me.
He whispers, “Goodnight, Little Pixie.”
The nickname awakens my body with the immediate memory of him standing between my legs, the air he exhaled filling my mouth as our bodies brushed against each other.
“Night, West,” I barely whisper.
I watch his tall, rugged body walk out of the room, turn slightly to close the door, and leave me with the image of his gray-green stare watching me till the final sliver disappears and a wall separates us.
I exhale, feeling an array of emotions tumble through me. I let my body fall back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling.
This entire night feels like two separate lifetimes. Both, equally concerning. One, thrilling in its possibilities.
Coming back home to Eden Ridge wasn’t supposed to find me more trouble than I left back in Silver Lakes.
CHAPTER FOUR
WEST
My hand runs up warm, soft skin, curving around her waist, teasing her belly button as my arm wraps her tight, pulling her body into mine. Her sleepy moan makes my already hard cock beat with a heated rhythm at the crease of her delectable ass.
“Cami,” I whisper into silk sheets of ebony black hair.
“West,” she moans, arching her back deeper into my front.
The hand around her waist slides up her torso, taking one, full, bare breast in hand until my fingers find her hardened nipple. Her gasp stirs my wired body, causing the tingling at the base of my spine to charge. Everything below comes alive and yearns for release.
“Bacon,” she whispers.
My brow crinkles. “Cami?”
She turns her face and mouths, “Bacon.”
A light jerk, and my eyes open.
The. Fuck?
My tired eyes stare at the window by my bed. I never bothered with curtains, wanting to be woken by natural daylight. Groaning, I roll over and rub my eyes with the heel of my palms.
The smoky aroma hits immediately.
I chuckle, slapping my arms down on the mattress. Bacon. She’s cooking fucking bacon. Well, that’s going to ruin me for bacon forever now.
I peel my body out of bed and grumble as I brush my teeth. I stare in the mirror at my alert but equally exhausted reflection.
“If I get hard every time I smell bacon…God help me,” I mumble around toothpaste foam, then spit and rinse.
I walk into the living area and there she is, looking refreshed, softly smiling while shaking her shoulders to something she must be singing in her head. I give myself a moment to take her in. It’s eight in the morning—I slept in—the sun streams in rays, illuminating my home. Camille is still wearing my sweatshirt, which I fucking love seeing her in.
