Page 19 of Wild for the Mountain Man
“Okay. Love you.”
“Love you too, kiddo.”
The line clicks off, and she sets the phone down, eyes glancing toward me. “He trusts you a lot.”
I rub the back of my neck. “Guess that’s what twenty years of friendship does.”
“Must make this feel complicated.”
“Some things just are.”
She nods, thoughtful, then gestures toward the kitchen. “How about we make something sweet? I saw flour in your pantry.”
“You bake?”
“Photographers have to eat.”
I laugh, but the idea feels right. We need something normal to fill the afternoon. I haul out ingredients as she rattlesthem off, setting them on the counter. Before long, we’re elbow-deep in dough. She sits on a stool and insists on doing the mixing, refusing to let me call it off because of her ankle. The cabin fills with the smell of cinnamon and sugar. Snow still beats the windows. When the rolls come out, she leans against the counter, cheeks flushed from the oven’s heat. “Tell me that doesn’t look perfect,” she says.
I tear one apart, hand her half. “Perfect,” I agree. “Even if we can’t leave the mountain, at least we’re eating like royalty.”
She laughs, and something in the sound relaxes all my senses. I pour two small bourbons, and carry it to the coffee table while she hobbles over on the crutches.
“To snow days,” I say.
“You ever notice,” she says softly, “how storms make everything slower? Like the world just … waits.”
I nod. “Yeah. Sometimes waiting’s the hardest part.”
For a moment, neither of us blinks. The air between us is so thick with everything we’re not saying. Outside, the wind shifts — the storm’s voice lowers to a whisper. Inside, the distance between us does the same. She shifts closer, the blanket falling from her shoulder. I move to pull it back up, and my fingers brush the curve of her collarbone. Her breath catches.
I start to pull away, but she lays her hand over mine. “You always do that,” she says quietly.
“Do what?”
“Take care of everyone but yourself.”
I can’t look at her when she says it, because she’s too right. “Old habits die hard.”
“Maybe some shouldn’t,” she murmurs. “Just … maybe let someone take care of you, too.”
Her thumb moves slightly against the back of my hand. It’s such a small touch, but it feels significant. I turn my palm to meet hers, fingers threading almost without thought.
“Lilah,” I say, meaning to warn, to remind, to stop this from becoming what it’s already become.
She lifts her chin, eyes steady on mine. “I know what I’m doing.”
The fire snaps, sending a flare of light between us, and that’s all it takes. I lean in before logic can rebuild the wall between us.
This kiss isn’t tentative like the first. It’s slow, deliberate, the kind that ends every argument you thought you needed to make. Her hand slides to my jaw. Mine finds the small of her back. Everything else disappears -- the snowstorm, the walls, and all rules.
Chapter 11
Lilah
Ican still feel the heat of his kiss as he scoops me up, cradling me like I weigh nothing. My heart hammers in my chest, a wild mix of fear, excitement, and anticipation. I wrap my arms around his neck. I’m aware of his strength, the steadiness of his arms, the soft brush of his beard against my forehead as he presses a quick kiss there.
Wade carries me down the hallway, into his bedroom. He sets me down on the edge of the mattress, carefully, but his hands linger on my waist like he can’t bring himself to let go. Kneeling in front of me, his palms are on my bare thighs before I can even find my next breath. I’m still in his flannel shirt, nothing else.
