Page 5 of Wrecked By the Mountain Man
That has to mean…something, right?
My gaze sweeps around the cabin, taking in the rustic, almost spartan interior. Everything looks... hand-built. Every piece of wood, every stone in the fireplace that roaring with flames in one corner.
It's dark, a little dusty, and feels heavy with unspoken stories.
My artistic eye immediately begins to categorize, to interpret all of it.
This isn’t just a cabin; it is a fortress, a carefully constructed shell around a wounded soul.
A tiny, hopeful spark ignites within me.
My parents have told me to find myself, to find clarity for my art. To 'do something with my life', as they put it.
Well, here I am.
This man, this gruff, rifle-wielding recluse with a scowl so deep his granite features make it seem like he's been carved by the mountain winds themselves.
Yet beneath that imposing exterior, I sense something else. Like untouched marble waiting for a sculptor's touch. Anartiststouch. My touch.
Edward is the blank canvas I didn't even known I was looking for.
He is a mystery, a challenge, a vibrant, if dark, inspiration.
“So… Edward. Cozy place you’ve got here.” My voice is annoyingly cheerful even to my own ears.
“Cozy,” he grunts, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that sends a surprising shiver down my spine. “It’sfunctional.”
He finally puts the rifle down, leaning it against the stone of the fireplace. His blue eyes fix on me, making me feel like a particularly perplexing bug under a microscope.
I peel off my ridiculous purple raincoat, the wet fabric squelching as it hits the floor.
Another mistake, apparently, because his heavy gaze darts to the puddle forming around the mess.
I offer a sheepish smile. “Right. Functional. And…rustic. Definitely rustic. Love the exposed beams. Very… mountain aesthetic.”
He just stares. No inflection, no smile, just that potent, uncomfortable stare.
Okay, so small talk isn't exactly his love language.
My perpetually sunny disposition, usually a superpower in awkward social situations, is apparently no match for Edward Rogers, the man of few words and much brooding.
“You’re dripping on my floor,” he finally says, his voice devoid of emotion.
“Right! Sorry. Habit,” I babble, bending to pick up the offending garment. “It was quite a trek up here. And my car… well, it’s not exactly in one piece anymore. Black ice, you know? Just jumped out of nowhere.Poof!Right off the side of the road. I swear, the mountain just swallowed it whole.”
I manage a small, unconvincing laugh. He does not join in.
I drape the raincoat over an empty chair, hoping the warmth from the roaring fire will dry it out before it becomes a permanent fixture.
I notice the cabin is sparsely furnished, but it's also impeccably clean.
Everything has its place, a rigid order that screams of a man who craves control.
My gaze lands on a small, battered wooden box on a nearby shelf. My constant companion, curiosity, pings inside my head.
Edward catches my eye, and I quickly avert my gaze, feeling guilty for my mental trespassing.
“You’re Penny Kaye, right?” His question is less a question and more a statement, his tone flat. “Penny Kaye as in Judy Kaye's daughter?”
