Page 7 of Wrecked By the Mountain Man
“Well,” I say, trying to pivot. “Existing is… important. A good baseline. But maybe we can elevate it? For the next few days, at least.” I glance pointedly at the window. “Looks like we’re going to be co-existing for a while.”
He sighs as he stands, and finally walks over to a worn leather armchair, sinking into it. His posture is rigid, but there’s a subtle slumping in his shoulders that betrays his inner battle.
He looks utterly exhausted.
“Look, Penny,” he begins, his voice softer now, though still gruff and kind of sexy in thatway-too-oldfor me kind of way. “I’m not… hospitable. This isn’t a bed and breakfast. You’re here because you’d freeze to death out there, and my… better judgment has clearly abandoned me.”
“Your better judgment is commendable,” I reply instantly, a genuine warmth in my tone. “And thank you, Edward. Really. You saved me.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly. “Don’t thank me. Just… try to be quiet. And don’t touch anything.”
My mouth snaps shut.Don’t touch anything. Right.
As an artist whose primary mode of exploration is tactile, this is going to be incredibly difficult.
Because everything in this rustic, charming cabin calls to me.
The smooth, aged wood of the table, the rough texture of the stone fireplace, the mystery of the box on the shelf.
My fingers practically tingle with the desire to… engage.
I wander over to the window, pressing my face against the cold glass.
The world outside is a furious white blur. It really is bad. My car is definitely gone for the foreseeable future.
A strange mix of relief and anxiety washes over me. Relief that I’m safe, anxiety that I’m stuck here with the human equivalent of a walking, talking thunderstorm.
I turn back to Edward, who is now staring into the fire, his profile silhouetted against the flames. He looks like something out of a rugged adventurer movie, all darkness and brooding intensity. And completely alone.
“Mind if I just… settle in?” I ask, gesturing vaguely at the small cabin.
From where I'm standing though, I can see there’s no spare bedroom, no couch. Definitely no guest towels with cute little soaps set out on top.
He waves a dismissive hand. “There’s a fold-out in the corner. Sleeping bag in the chest by the door.”
He doesn’t even look at me as I retrieve the sleeping bag, grateful for the small acts of service, however reluctantly offered. The foldout bed is functional, just like everything else around here.
I unfold it, making a mental note to appreciate every step of this unexpected adventure. This ismyinspiration. My grand, dramatic, spend-the-night-with-a-grumpy-man inspiration.
After securing my makeshift bed, I sit on it, pulling my legs up to my chest.
The warmth of the fire is slowly seeping into me, thawing the last of the terror. Now, only the awkwardness remains.
And the curiosity.
Oh, the burning, insatiable curiosity.
I watch Edward for a long time, trying to decipher the man behind the grunts, the mumbled few words, and the harsh glares.
He’s looking at the fire with an intensity that seems to go beyond simply watching flames. He’s seeing something else, something in the dancing light that troubles him.
I decide to switch strategies. If he won't talk, I'll explore.
My eyes linger on a sturdy wooden workbench in the corner, covered in wood carvings in various stages of completion. And then, in the corner, a stack of old sketchbooks, tucked away under the bench, as if they've been hidden from view.
My artistic radar goes off like a siren.
This is it. This is the something I'm looking for.
