Page 2 of Possessed By the Mountain Man
My hand freezes on the doorframe.
Okay.
Hedid notjust say that.
I pivot, eyebrow arched. "I thought you weren’t interested in fluffing anything."
His eyes rake over me again, slow and deliberate. "I’m not. Unless you ask real nice."
My pulse hammers.
I laugh, trying to cover the way my knees go suspiciously weak. “You always this charming, or is it just me?”
He steps in close again, that heat rolling off him like a goddamn furnace. "It’s just you, cupcake."
Cupcake.
I’m going to ruin him.
“Great. Then I’ll ruin your week personally,” I beam, pushing the door open with dramatic flair. “Consider me your glitter-drenched poltergeist."
He mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like'what fresh hell is this?'and follows me inside.
The interior is...a work in progress.
Rugged beams. A stone fireplace. A kitchen that hasn’t been updated since Y2K. But it has potential. Cozy, moody, totally haunted-adjacent.
I drop my bags and spin. “Where do I set up my cauldron and emotional baggage?”
“Wherever you won’t burn the place down.” He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, abs on full display.
I pointedly don’t look at his stomach. Or the trail of hair disappearing into those evil, low-hanging jeans.
“This’ll do,” I declare, collapsing onto the overstuffed couch and kicking off my boots. “You got hot chocolate? Or do I need to forage for cocoa powder in the woods?”
He eyes me. "You’re gonna be a lot."
“Sweetheart, I’m gonna beeverything.”
He groans, pushing off the frame. “I need a drink."
“Make it a double. I’m a high-maintenance nightmare.”
He disappears into the kitchen, and I grin to myself. Game on.
Later, I emerge from a steamy shower in a cloud of vanilla body wash and bad decisions.
He’s on the couch, still shirtless, flipping through a beat-up horror novel like he’s ignoring the spark between us. Like I didn’t just toss a pink bath towel over the bannister and hum my way through an Ariana Grande medley loud enough to raise ghosts.
I curl up on the opposite end of the couch. "So what’s your deal? You run a haunted lodge and chop wood shirtless for fun?"
He flips a page. “Used to be Army. Came back. Needed quiet. This place is owned by my best friend’s family–The Warners–they hired me as caretaker for the summer and I never left. They’re spending their retirement years in Florida and I’m the guy they trust to keep this place running."
"And now you terrorize city girls with your grumpy lumberjack schtick?"
He glances at me over the page. "Only the ones who show up with wigs and glitter hairspray."
“Rude. The wigs are part of my aesthetic."
