Page 3 of Branded Mountain Man
Not Sloan Whitaker.
She shrugged out of her rain jacket and hung it next to his flannel, the movement pulling her t-shirt tight across her chest. Colt forced himself to look away and busied himself with stoking the fire.
"So," she said, settling onto the single chair at his table. "How long have you been up here?"
"Long enough."
"That's not an answer."
Colt glanced at her, irritated. "Three years."
"Three years." She repeated it like she was filing it away for later analysis. "And before that?"
"Before that doesn't matter."
"It might?—"
"No." The word came out harder than he'd intended, and Sloan went quiet. Good. Maybe she'd get the message.
Outside, the storm was intensifying. Rain drummed against the roof, and the wind made the tower sway just enough to remind them they were sixty feet off the ground. Colt had been through dozens of storms up here, but never with company.
Never with a woman who smelled like vanilla and rain and looked at him like she was trying to solve a puzzle.
He glanced at her again, taking in the way she sat with perfect posture despite the uncomfortable chair, the way her eyes tracked his movements around the small space. She wascataloging him, he realized. Making mental notes for whatever report she'd file when she got back to town.
The thought made his jaw clench.
"You're not what I expected," Sloan said suddenly.
"What did you expect?"
"Someone more..." She gestured vaguely. "Feral, I guess. Living off squirrels and talking to trees."
Despite himself, Colt's mouth almost twitched. "I eat canned food like a civilized person. And the trees are terrible conversationalists."
Was that almost a smile on her face? It was gone too quickly for him to be sure.
"The tower looks good," she said, looking around again. "You've done a lot of work up here."
"Needed something to do."
"Most people find other things to do when they're bored. Hobbies. Netflix."
"Most people don't live sixty feet off the ground with no internet."
"Most people don't choose to live sixty feet off the ground with no internet."
There it was again—that assessing look. Like she was trying to figure out what was wrong with him. Colt turned back to the fire, feeding it another piece of wood and watching the flames dance.
"Why did you?" she asked quietly.
"Why did I what?"
"Choose this."
The question hung in the air between them, weighted with implications he didn't want to explore. Outside, lightning flashed, illuminating the rain-soaked windows for a split second before thunder followed.
"Because it's quiet," he said finally.
