Page 6 of Should I Fall
“Whoa, put that thing away,” I say, struck by how incrediblyhotthe rugged mountain man is when he’s smiling. His resting grumpy face is potent enough, but that smile could incinerate panties on the spot.
“What thing?”
“That smile. It’s dangerous.” The moment the words slip out, I wonder if my bluntness was too much. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean?—”
“Are you apologizing for giving me a compliment?” he asks, genuinely confused.
“It was a little…bold.”
“I like bold.”
I realize he’s standing closer to me now than he was before. Our toes aren’t quite touching, but another couple of inches, and we’d be breathing the same air. I flicker my gaze up to his, wondering if I’m imagining the heat swirling in his eyes. Is it possible that this rugged, muscular, grumpy man who’s beennothing but irritated with me since I arrived might actually beattractedto me?
“Dash—”
A twig snaps, and Blaze lets out a low growl. Dash tugs at me, putting me between his back and the fire watch tower.
“Brutus.”
Oh fuck.
Maybe I didn’t need to go on hike to be a bear snack after all.
Chapter Four
Dash
It wasn’t Brutus.
Thank the fucking gods it wasn’t the grizzly, or my supplies would likely have been raided before I ever reached the landing pad to haul them back to the watch tower. I know better than to fuck with the big guy, but had he gotten his sharp mitts on my cupcake stash from the Cinnamon Creek Bakery, I might have gone a little stupid with rage.
“I offered to help you,” Stormi points out, sitting cross-legged on my bed, Blaze curled up next to her, as I set the last crate inside and close the door.
She’s still wearing her yellow jacket since I’ve been too stubborn to light the wood stove, but it’s easy enough to imagine the curvy beauty out of it. Easy enough to picture her naked and tangled in my sheets.
Fuck, where did that come from?
“That’s the last of it,” I say, turning away. Only three more hours before the chopper comes back to get her. I can handlebeing alone with her and being a respectable gentleman for three hours.
I hope.
“How often do you get supplies dropped off?” she asks, reminding me that she signed up for a tour. I’m supposed to be the guide, explaining the whole manning a fire tower experience. Winnie will no doubt ask her for feedback the moment she gets back to the lodge. Though the woman who’s like a grandma to many of us in Cinnamon Creek understands me better than most, she would be disappointed by just how standoffish I’ve been. I don’t want to be the reason the lodge gets a bad rap.
I can be a better host.
“Supplies are delivered every couple of weeks or so, depending on my needs and whether or not I have visitors.”
“Visitors besides the tours?”
“I only take tours one day a week.”
I lift the sought after bakery box from one of the crates and set it on the writing desk that takes up residence in a corner of my square, one-room tower. I’m eager to discover what magical concoctions Ivy has cooked up. Her fall cupcakes are my favorite, not that I’d ever admit to a soul that I live for pumpkin spiced baked goods in the fall.
“But sometimes my family comes to stay with me,” I add.
“You have family?”
“Does that surprise you?”
