Page 22 of Possessed By the Mountain Man
He slides a bowl toward me. “I survive.”
I take a spoonful. Pause. Then moan.
His hand flexes around his own spoon.
“Okay,” I breathe. “That’s illegal. What did you put in this?”
“Food.”
“Lies. That is sex in a bowl.”
His mouth twitches. “Eat quietly.”
“You cook quietly.”
We eat in relative silence—meaning I make appreciative noises while he watches me with a look that should be outlawed. Something keeps twisting in my gut, something more than attraction.
When the bowls are empty, he rises to clean up. I watch the muscles ripple across his back and try not to embarrass myself with thirsty sounds.
“So why do this?” I ask suddenly. “Run a romantic mountain getaway?”
“It pays.”
“And?”
He pauses at the sink. Shrugs. “I take care of the lodge, guests take care of themselves. I don’t cater.”
“Ah. You’re one of those.”
“Those?”
“Men who think isolation is a personality trait.”
Instead of snapping back, he just watches me. A long, unreadable stare. “You don’t like quiet?”
“Quiet’s fine,” I say. “Lonely isn’t.”
He dries his hands. “Some of us do better alone.”
“And some of us say that because we’re scared,” I shoot back before I can stop myself.
His jaw tightens. “You don’t know shit about me.”
“Then tell me I’m wrong.”
He steps forward—and I brace, expecting explosion.
But he doesn’t yell.
He doesn’t flinch.
He leans in.
“That rule you made,” he says, voice low. “No touching?”
My heart stutters. “Yeah?”
He cups my jaw.
