Page 6 of Possessed By the Mountain Man
“Nope.” I flick the switch. The strand washes the room in cinnabar glow and smug satisfaction. “See? Cozy, not cursed.”
He steps past me without breaking eye contact and flips the big breaker lever by the fireplace.
The entire lodge sighs into darkness.
Silence. Then my hiss. “You did not.”
His expression is the picture of innocence. “Can’t overload the system.”
“You mean your ego?” I fling the dead lights onto the couch. “Turn it back on.”
“Ask nicely.”
“Please.” I add a knife-sweet smile. “Daddy.”
Something hungry flashes across his face; then it’s gone. “Don’t call me that.” He flips the breaker. The lodge hums awake. “And don’t fry my panel.”
“I’ll control myself,” I lie.
He leans in. “Doubt it.”
I stalk to my box, fishing out a spool of webbing and the bat lights Idefinitelywon’t plug in until he leaves. “Where’s the step ladder?”
“Kitchen.” He doesn’t move.
“Can you get it?”
“I don’t fetch.”
“You will for me.” I tip my head toward the kitchen door. “Unless you like watching me climb furniture.”
His jaw works like he’s chewing through a curse. “Don’t break your neck,” he mutters, disappearing through the swinging door.
Victory tastes like sugar skulls.
I grab the chance to plug the bats in behind the couch. The little wings flutter crimson. Petty? Yes. Worth it? Also yes.
Thorne returns with the ladder, sets it down, and pins me with a look that says he knows exactly what I did. “You’re determined to test me.”
“I’m determined to win.” I toe the ladder. “You hold. I hang.”
“Not a chance.” But he plants his palm on the top rung anyway, bracing the frame like a human anchor. I climb and feel the heat of him rise with me—cedar, smoke, stubbornness. When I lean to drape the webbing, my skirt rides. His breath catches.
“Eyes up, lumberjack,” I tease.
“They are.” His voice roughens. “You’re just in the way.”
I glance down. He’s not looking at the webbing.
My laugh comes out breathier than I intend. I twist a strand, brush the beam, and a shower of old dust rains over my shoulders. I squeal, wobble. His hand clamps my calf, steady and firm.
“Easy.” His palm slides once, slow, like he needs me to feel how strong he is. “I’ve got you.”
“Cocky,” I murmur, heart hammering.
“Capable,” he corrects, and doesn’t move until I do.
By the time I climb down, my pulse won’t settle. I hide it by straightening the velvet pumpkins and pretending the room isn’t vibrating with something dangerous.
