Page 11 of Mountain Man's Naughty List
The words hit deeper than they should. I look up, meet his eyes, and the air between us shifts. The fire pops softly, the only sound. His gaze drifts to my mouth.
My heartbeat stumbles.
He leans closer, slow enough for me to pull away, and when our lips meet it feels like exhaling after holding my breath too long. Warmth unfurls through me—slow, sweet, dangerous. His hand finds the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair, the kiss deepening until I feel it in my pulse, my knees, everywhere.
When he finally pulls back, he rests his forehead against mine. His breath is unsteady, eyes bright.
“Liz,” he murmurs, voice rough, “you scare the hell out of me.”
The words aren’t angry—just true, raw, almost tender.
I smile, breathless. “Good. You scare me too.”
He laughs softly, presses one last quick kiss to the corner of my mouth, and leans back.
“Guess we can check ‘get laid’ off the list another day,” he says, trying for humor.
I shake my head, cheeks warm. “You really are incorrigible.”
“Yeah,” he says, watching me with that new, careful look. “But I’m trying to get better.”
Outside, the light fades to silver, our handmade ornaments swaying gently in the glow of the fire. For the first time since I arrived, the cabin feels like Christmas—not because of the tree, but because of the man sitting beside it, smiling like he’s finally remembered how.
FIVE
THATCHER
The sky over the ridge is the color of pewter when I pull on my parka and grab the small hatchet.
The air smells like snow and sap, sharp enough to sting my throat. The cabin looks warm and smug behind me, smoke curling from the chimney. Inside is safety and hot coffee and Liz, who—if I’m reading her right—thinks I’m out of my damn mind.
She’s right.
But a promise is a promise, even if it’s to a stupid piece of paper labeledThe Naughty List.
Today’s target:Skinny dip in a frozen lake.
The pond behind the cabin isn’t much of a lake, but it’ll do. I tested the ice earlier, counted the steps from shore to the deep spot, made sure the hot tub was running. I’ve been through worse conditioning drills. Cold plunges. Ice baths. Pain that makes your heart race until the edges of the world go bright.
What I haven’t done is invite someone I’m halfway in love with to watch me do it.
“Let me get this straight.”
Liz stands on the porch, bundled in flannel and disbelief. “You’re going tocut a holein perfectly solid ice and thenjump into it.On purpose.”
“That’s the plan.” I grin and set the first swing. Chips of ice scatter like shattered glass. The sound echoes across the trees.
“You’re insane.”
“Probably.” I give another clean strike. “But it’s a good kind of insane.”
“There’s no good kind of insane.”
“Sure there is. It’s calledliving a little.”
She mutters something about testosterone and life insurance but trudges down to help anyway, handing me the thermos she insisted we bring. When she kneels beside me to brush snow from the opening, her breath ghosts against my cheek. I’m aware of everything—her nearness, her laugh, the curl of hair escaping her hat. The way my pulse keeps syncing to hers.
We widen the hole until dark water glints beneath. A ribbon of current slides under the ice. Beautiful and dangerous.
