Page 4 of Mountain Man Rescue
Halfway through flipping a sandwich, a deep voice rumbles behind me. “What are you doing?”
I nearly drop the spatula. “Holy crap, you move like a ghost!” I turn, my cheeks flaming hot. “I thought I’d make dinner since, you know…” My words tangle as he crosses his arms. “You did save my life and all. It’s the least I can do.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to.” I shift my weight, suddenly nervous. “I should’ve asked first.”
“No need,” he says, opening a cabinet and pulling out plates. “I’ll set the table.”
I watch him move around his own kitchen—efficient, quiet, that big body somehow graceful. The scent of his aftershave drifts between us, cedar and spice, and I swear the air gets thicker.
“How long have you lived up here?” I ask, opening the fridge and finding my favorite—pickles.
“Five years.” He folds napkins neatly. “Took me four to build this place.”
I blink. “You built your own home?”
“I did.”
“That’s… incredible,” I admit. “The views alone are worth it.”
I flip the sandwich and slide it onto a plate. “I made you two.”
“Good,” he says, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Saving damsels works up an appetite.”
A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. “I can’t believe I said that to you.”
“Red, you were just letting me know you can take care of yourself.”
The nickname hits differently this time. I like it. It feels… intimate. Special.
I grab the whiskey bottle from the living room and return to the table. “I could use a refill. You?”
“You’re a girl after my own heart,” he says, holding up his empty glass.
We clink, and the whiskey burns warm on the way down. Dinner is simple but perfect—crispy sandwiches, a jar of pickles, and the soft glow of firelight between us. Wyatt shares stories about the mountain: the time a bear wandered onto his porch, the storm that took out the power for three weeks, and the snowshoe hare that keeps raiding his woodpile. By the time he gets to a raccoon story, I’m laughing so hard tears are streaming down my cheeks.
I can’t remember the last time I felt this light. This easy. Maybe it’s the whiskey. Or maybe it’s him.
When we finish, I help clear the table, ignoring his protests. We do the dishes side by side, bumping shoulders occasionally, the silence between us turning comfortable. Familiar.
A yawn sneaks up on me so big my jaw cracks. “Sorry. Guess adrenaline wears off fast.”
“I put one of my T-shirts on the bed,” he says, drying a plate. “My sister left some things in the dresser the last time she visited—feel free to use them. Fresh towels are in the bathroom. Make yourself at home.”
He picks up Lucky’s water bowl to refill it. As I move past him, our arms brush. Sparks skitter over my skin, chasing goosebumps in their wake. When I glance up, I find his gaze on me—steady, unguarded, warm.
“You’re safe here, Red,” he says quietly.
The words settle deep, low in my stomach. My brain knows I should thank him and step away, but my heart? It’s busy wondering what his mouth would feel like against mine.
“I know,” I whisper. “Thank you, Wyatt. For saving me. For… everything.”
“You’re welcome.”
I step into the guest room on legs that suddenly feel weak. The room smells faintly of cedar and him. I take a quick shower, slip into his T-shirt—it hangs just past mid-thigh—and climb under the quilt. Outside, snow falls in thick, steady sheets. Inside, the fire hums softly from the other room.
I tell myself I should sleep—that this is temporary. And that I’ve sworn off men for good.
