Page 14 of Wild for the Mountain Man
“Barely.” I can’t help the smile that slips out. “Bathroom’s down the hall, second door on the left.”
“Yes, sir.” The teasing agreement in her voice hits me harder than it should.
When she disappears down the hallway, the cabin suddenly feels empty. I rake a hand through my hair and stare at the fire, trying to breathe past the image of her pressed against me, the scent of her shampoo, the sound of her laugh.
Lilah is my best friend’s daughter. And right now, she’s in my house. She’s stubbornly sweet and beautiful. And I’m one good intention away from making a mistake I can’t take back.
The phone rings just as she’s settling back on the couch, ankle propped high. Caleb’s name flashes on the screen.
“Hey, son.”
“Hey, Dad. Road’s icing over bad near the bridge,” he says. “Coach called it. We’re staying at Ryan’s place tonight. He’s got a spare room.”
“Good call,” I say, staring at the dark window beyond the fire. “Don’t push it in this weather.”
“You okay up there?”
“Fine. Lilah twisted her ankle on the ridge. She’s here until it’s steady enough for town.”
There’s a short pause, then the grin I canhear. “You and Lilah Grant, huh?”
“Don’t start.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, drawing out the words. “Stay warm.”
The line clicks dead before I can reply. I set the phone down and let out a slow breath. The cabin creaks softly, wind brushing at the eaves. Just me and her now. A part of me welcomes this – another part fears it. When I turn, she’s watching from the couch, one eyebrow raised.
“Bad roads?”
“Yeah. Caleb’s staying with friends tonight.”
“So … it’s just us.”
Her tone is casual, but her eyes give it away. Lilah’s curious, cautious, lit with something I shouldn’t name.
“Guess so,” I say. “You hungry yet?”
“Always.”
I move around the kitchen, pulling what I’ve got … venison stew from the freezer, a loaf of bread, butter that needs a little coaxing by the stove.
“You ever sit still?” she asks.
“Not much,” I admit. “Helps to keep my hands busy.”
“Cooking counts as art in my book.”
“Then I’ll take the compliment.”
When dinner’s ready, I carry the bowls to the coffee table in front of the couch and pull it diagonally so I can put a foot rest in front of her injured leg. She moves slowly, pushing up from the couch to a sitting position.
“Here, let me lift your leg onto this stool.”
“I can do it,” she says. She bends over at the waist, stubbornly independent, and I slide the cushioned footrest under the leg.
“Sit. I’ll get what you need.”
“Bossy,” she teases, but obeys.
