Page 28 of Enticed by the Mountain Man
“Yeah?”
“They want three of your dining sets this time.”
I grunt softly. “Guess I’d better get to work.”
“I already told them we could have them ready by the end of next month.”
“We?” I ask.
She nudges my side. “Don’t act like I don’t help. I handle the customers, the marketing, the payments—”
“And the part where you make a mess trying to help me stain the legs?”
“Exactly.”
I laugh, dropping a kiss to the top of her head. “Couldn’t do it without you, sunshine.”
“You’re damn right.”
She smiles up at me, and I catch that look — the one that still knocks the air out of my lungs. The one that says she knows exactly how much I love her, and she loves me just as much back.
We head into town later that afternoon for Ford and Maisie’s little girl’s birthday party. The whole Pine Hollow crew’s there — Annie and Cal wrangling their twins near the cider stand, Dottie holding court with a plate of cupcakes, Ford grilling while trying to keep his kids from sneaking marshmallows.
It’s chaos in the best possible way.
Maeve’s right in the middle of it, helping Maisie cut the cake, laughing with everyone, her cheeks pink from the sun. She fits in everywhere — like she was made for this town, this life, this moment.
Someone asks if we’re ever going to have kids, and Maeve smiles that soft, easy smile of hers. “We’ve got plenty of them running around already,” she says, nodding toward the pack of little ones shrieking by the bonfire.
They laugh, and the question drifts away like smoke.
Truth is, we talked about it years ago — whether we wanted children. The answer was no. Not because we couldn’t or didn’t love the idea, but because what we have feels full. We’ve built something solid, something that belongs only to us.
She’s enough for me. More than enough.
Later, after the sun dips behind the mountains, we drive home in comfortable silence. The headlights sweep over the familiar curve of the road, and when the cabin comes into view, Maeve sighs softly.
“Still feels good coming back here,” she says.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Always will.”
Inside, she kicks off her shoes and heads straight for the kitchen, grabbing two glasses of wine. She hands me one and leans back against the counter. The firelight paints her skin inwarm, golden tones, and I swear my heart still stumbles every time I look at her.
“What’re you thinking about?” she asks.
“You,” I say honestly.
She grins. “Always me, huh?”
“Always.”
I set my glass down and move closer until she’s pinned between me and the counter. Her breath catches, but she doesn’t pull back.
“Still can’t get enough of you,” I murmur.
Her hand slides up my chest. “Good,” she whispers. “Because I don’t plan on giving you a chance to.”
Our mouths meet, slow and hungry. She tastes like wine and warmth and everything good in the world. Her fingers curl in my shirt; my hands find her hips. The years haven’t dulled it — if anything, the pull between us has only grown deeper, more sure.
