Page 8 of Possessed By the Mountain Man
“Happy now?” he asks.
I slide off the chair, still breathless with adrenaline. “I was emotionally attached to those caramels.”
“You’re emotionally attached to chaos.” He tips his chin at the scattered candy. “You leave food out, you invite trouble. Rule two.”
I plant my hands on my hips. “Rule two didn’t mention cat burglars in bandit masks.”
He steps closer. I don’t back up, even when my heart does a weird flip. “Rule two assumed you had sense.”
“And you assumed you could cut my power any time I get happy.”
He almost smiles. “I can.”
“Don’t test me.”
“You’re the test.” His gaze drops to my mouth again, heated now. “You walk in, you make everything loud, and then you look at me like you want me to fail it.”
“I don’t want you to fail,” I say, softer than I mean to. “I want you to play.”
“What game?” he asks, voice unreadable.
“The one where you stop pretending you don’t like it when I push you.”
He doesn’t move for three long, pulsing seconds. Then he reaches past me, plucks the poison apple lollipop from the counter, and holds it to my lips.
“Open,” he says.
I do.
He slips the candy into my mouth slow, eyes on my lower lip as it glides over the glossy red. Heat spikes everywhere. I suck the tip on instinct.
His jaw ticks. “Inside voice,” he murmurs, like I made a sound. Maybe I did.
“See?” I manage around the sugar. “Effective.”
He takes the stick back, bites the other end clean off with a snap and tosses the stick. “Break’s over. You decorate. I work.”
“That your way of saying thank you for the theft deterrent?”
“That's my way of saying stop leaving bait.” He moves toward the door, pauses. “And lock the porch. Night brings everything hungry.”
I stare at his back. “Including you?”
He stops.
Turns.
“Especially me,” he says, and disappears down the hall.
The next hour is a standoff disguised as productivity. I hang cobwebs and rearrange the mantel three times. He repairs a hinge, tightens screws, mutters to himself like a sinner reciting prayers. Every so often we orbit close enough to brush shoulders. Every time, I feel it.
Electric, combustible, inevitable.
I’m on the step ladder again when he returns to the room, wiping his hands on a shop towel. “You’re tilting that skull like it’s flirting,” he says.
“It is flirting.” I adjust it a hair. “With your self-control.”
“Cute,” he deadpans, but he doesn’t walk away. “You sure you know what you’re doing up there?”
