Page 9 of Possessed By the Mountain Man
“Are you offering help?”
“I’m offering supervision.” He plants a hand on the ladder again.
“Bossy.”
“Capable,” he says for the second time, and I hate that the word turns my spine liquid.
I reach too far for the last hook, lose balance, and swear. His hand catches my waist, the other wrapping my thigh to steady me. For a breath, we’re chest to chest, heat to heat, nothing between us but the pretense of inconvenience.
I look down.
He’s already looking up.
“Thorne,” I say, not a warning.
“Aspen,” he answers, not an apology.
We don’t move.
Then the porch light flickers and pops with a tiny burst. I jump. He drags me off the ladder like it insulted me and sets me on my feet.
“The electrical system is old,” he says again, eyes still on my mouth. “Remember?”
“I’ll be careful,” I murmur, and I mean the electricity. I don’t mean him.
“Doubt it,” he says, softer, and backs away like it costs him.
As night falls the lodge settles into creaks and sighs. The wind scrapes the eaves like ghosts craving entry. I line velvet stockings under the mantel and tape the contest entry card—Aspen & TBD—onto the side table.
He notices. “TBD?”
“To be determined.” I shrug. “Or Thorne’s Bad Decisions.”
“That a promise or a threat?”
“Yes.”
He huffs out something that might be a laugh and might be a plea for patience from any gods who’ll listen.
“Dinner’s at six,” he says. “I’m cooking.”
“You can cook?”
He pins me with a look. “Woman, I can survive. You’ll eat.”
“Is that a threat, too?”
“It’s a guarantee.” His gaze skims my body once, thorough. “You like guarantees.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You showed up to a couples’ retreat alone with a plan to win anyway. You want certainty so bad you make it yourself.”
I swallow past the lump his accuracy forms in my throat. “And you? What do you want?”
His eyes don’t leave mine. “Quiet.” He lets it hang. Then, lower: “Until you.”
The air tightens.
