Page 5 of Mountain Man's Naughty List
“Just—be nice to him, okay? He’s having a rough patch.”
“Stevie,” I hiss, “he’s asleep on the couch and smells like he crawled out of a whiskey bottle.”
“He’ll probably sleep half the day,” she says, unbothered. “Text me if he gives you trouble. Love you!”
She hangs up before I can respond.
I slide the phone back into my pocket, stare at the snoring offender, and sigh. “Love you too,” I mutter.
I should leave him alone. He’s her brother; she vouched for him. But something catches my eye—a crumpled sheet of paper on the rug near his boots. I stoop to pick it up. It’s covered in thick, messy handwriting.
Skip the gym.
Sleep past 6 a.m.
Drive too fast on a snowmobile.
Drink a gallon of eggnog.
My brows rise. “What on earth…”
I’m still frowning at the page when a low, rough voice cuts through the quiet.
“Wow,” he rasps, brown eyes cracking open, a crooked grin curving his mouth. “That was fast.”
I nearly drop the paper. “Excuse me?”
He blinks at me, confused but amused. “Didn’t think I’d check that one off the list this quick.”
“Thelist?” I hold up the paper, heat crawling up my neck.
Recognition flares in his eyes, and he sits up fast, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Hey, that’s private.”
I hold it out of reach. “What is this, a bucket list or a cry for help?”
“Research,” he says again, snatching it and folding it like it’s a state secret. “You must be Stevie’s friend.”
“Liz,” I confirm. “The one who was supposed to have this place to myself for the next few days.”
“Thatcher,” he says, recovering fast and flashing a grin that could power a small city. “The prodigal pain in the ass who is your roommate until they get here.”
“Nice to meet you, Pain in the Ass. Coffee’s in the kitchen. Try not to throw up in it.”
By the time he drags himself into the kitchen, I’ve poured him a mug. He inhales it as if he needs it to exist.
He grimaces at my healthy spread of ingredients—ground chicken, egg whites, steamed spinach. “Are you punishing me?”
“You’re an athlete.”
“I know.”
“I assumed you liked to eat clean.”
“I’m on break,” he says, voice gravelly but playful. “No kale, no guilt.”
“Fine.” I sigh and open the fridge. “How do you feel about pancakes and bacon?”
His grin turns wicked. “Now you’re speaking my language.”
