Page 12 of Mountain Man Rescue
He meows like he understands, curling around my feet while I dig through the fridge. Before I know it, the skillet’s sizzling, and the cabin fills with the smell of bacon and coffee. I scramble eggs, slice fruit, toast bread, and pour two steaming mugs.
I’m wearing Wyatt’s flannel shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to my elbows and the tails of the shirt falling past my knees. It smells like him—cedar, soap, and woodsmoke—and I already know I’ll never forget it.
As I arrange everything on a tray, a thought sneaks up on me—I haven’t given a single second of worry to what I look like. My hair’s a mess. My face is bare. And for once in my life, I don’t care.
Because with Wyatt, I feel like I’m enough…just the way I am.
I balance the tray in my hands and walk back to the bedroom. He’s still asleep, the early light brushing over his jaw and the tattoo on his chest. My heart gives a helpless little flutter.
I set the tray down and lean in to kiss him awake. “Good morning, mountain man.”
He stirs, his lips curving into a slow grin. “I smell bacon.”
“You do.” I laugh softly. “Today is breakfast in bed.” I brush a kiss across his mouth. “You deserve to be pampered, too.”
“Well, look at that,” he murmurs, his voice still thick with sleep. “I could get used to this.”
The smile that he gives me—wide, real, unguarded—melts my insides. I crawl onto the bed beside him, and we eat side by side, trading bites of toast and fruit. He laughs at my story about the groomsman who fainted during his brother’s wedding vows and the flower girl who refused to share her bouquet. His laughter fills the room, deep and warm, and I tuck the sound somewhere safe inside me.
When the plates are empty, I take the tray back to the kitchen, humming to myself. While setting the frying pan in the pantry, I hear a low rumble in the distance.
I freeze. “What’s that?”
Wyatt appears in the doorway, tugging a T-shirt over his head. “The plow,” he says quietly. “Looks like the road’s open.”
The words hit like a punch. I stand there, holding the cast-iron skillet like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.The road’s open…
He steps behind me, wraps his arms around my waist, and rests his chin on top of my head. “Guess the storm’s finally done.”
I nod, afraid that if I speak, I’ll shatter.
“I’m gonna jump in the shower,” he says after a moment, and just like that—he’s gone.
Notgone, gone,but walking down the hall, the water turning on, and the sound of it feels like the soft click of a door closing somewhere deep inside me.
He didn’t ask me to stay.
The tears come fast. I blink hard, but they spill over anyway. I look toward the window, and there it is—the dark shape of the plow crawling up the mountain road.
If I don’t leave now, I’ll make a fool of myself. I’ll beg him to keep me. And I can’t do that—I won’t do that.
I run to the bedroom, drag on my jeans, tug on my ballet flats, and grab my coat from the peg by the door. My chest aches as I take one last look at the cabin—the fire, the blankets, my favorite coffee mug drying next to his.
Lucky sits by the hearth, his tail curled neatly around his paws. He watches me with wise, quiet eyes. “Take care of him for me, okay?” I whisper.
Then I open the door and step into the snow.
The plow’s just reached the drive. The driver—a white-bearded man in a red cap—leans out his window. “You alright, miss?”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “My car’s at the bottom of the mountain. Can you take me down?”
“Sure thing, hon. Hop in.”
As I climb into the cab, he squints. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you around these parts.”
“I’m not from around here.” My voice cracks. “I got stuck in the storm.”
He nods, putting the plow in gear. “Happens to the best of us.”
