Page 14 of Naughty With The Mountain Man
“Maybe for other lessons.”
The space between us thins. We turn at the same time. His gaze drops to my mouth. Mine does the exact same treacherous thing. He leans in. I lean in. Ranger sighs, the fire crackles … CRACK. A log pops loud enough to sound like a gunshot. A flare of sparks skitters behind the grate. I yelp, hand on his chest. He catches my wrist without thinking, protective first, everything else second. We both freeze, inches away, ensnared in heat and cinnamon and don’t-you-dare.
“Sorry,” I whisper, ridiculous. “Your fire is dramatic.”
“Occupational hazard,” he murmurs back, voice low enough to melt chocolate.
The moment wobbles. He lets my wrist go. I let his shirt go. We sit again, not touching, now very aware of all the places we could.
“Maybe we should …” I begin.
“… add another log,” he finishes, standing too fast. He does. I sip my drink like cocoa spiked with brandy will save me. Ranger decides my knee needs his entire head, and I allow it because someone here should be calm.
The lights come back to life with a shy little flicker. The fridge kicks on. The room looks different instantly, less secret, like daytime snuck in with its shoes on.
“Well,” I say, aiming for breezy and landing on breathless. “I guess the universe clocked us out.”
He glances toward the hall. “I’ll check the breaker. Make sure it holds.”
“Okay.”
He leaves. I press two fingers to my mouth, because I am not seventeen anymore but my head is spinning like it didn’t get the memo. When he comes back, it’s with blankets we don’t strictly need now that the heat’s returning. He tosses one over Ranger, another over my legs, and lowers himself beside me again like we agreed on this camp a long time ago.
We don’t say the near-kiss out loud. We just lie there, listening to the new logs crackle. Maybe storms don’t trap you. Maybe they strip away your excuses.
I reach down and scratch Ranger behind the ear. He thumps once and goes limp. Across the quilt, Beckett’s hand flexes like he’s resisting the urge to do something complicated. I don’t move. The candle burns lower—Sin-namon Nights, spicy, cozy, absolutely tax deductible.
I fall asleep facing the fire, knowing he’s inches away, pretending to do the same. Between us, Ranger dreams of something simple like running, warmth, or safety. I envy him, because nothing about this feels simple anymore.
If this is what surviving a storm looks like, I might stop praying for plowed roads and clear skies.
Chapter 8
Beckett
Ranger stirs first. The fire’s burned down to a red glow, the cabin quiet except for wind pressing at the eaves. Ruby’s asleep on the floor nest she built, one arm flung out, curls spilling over the quilt.
“Stay,” I whisper, but Ranger’s already on his feet—nose twitching, tail wagging slow and suspicious. He gives the kind of low huff that meansI smell a mystery.
“Don’t you dare,” I mutter, because nothing good ever follows that sound.
Too late. The dog noses into one of Ruby’s open boxes, rustling tissue paper, tail thumping like a drum. A boxes. A second later, he backs out proudly carrying something shiny and pink. Oh no!
“Ranger,” I say, voice low. “Drop it.”
He prances toward me instead, doing that full-body wiggle dogs reserve for showing off their crimes. I catch enough firelight to realize exactly what he’s carrying.
“Buddy, that’s not a bone.”
Ruby stirs, blinking up at us. For one blessed second she’s dreamy and soft-voiced. “Beckett?”
Then she focuses. Sees the dog. Sees the object.
“Oh mygod!” She launches upright. “Ranger! Drop it!”
Ranger bolts like this just became his favorite game. She chases him around the living area, the cellophane packaged pink thing swinging from his mouth like a victory flag. I lean an elbow on my knee and try very hard not to laugh.
“Ranger,” I say, using myserious-dadtone. “Drop it.”
