Page 20 of Naughty With The Mountain Man
“I’ll wash up,” I say.
Beckett shakes his head. “No way.”
“Why not? I’m a very responsible houseguest.”
He leans one hip against the counter, arms folded. “Because you already paid rent.”
I raise a brow. “With what?”
His mouth quirks. “Disaster. Company. Bacon triage.”
I laugh. “Sounds like a fair exchange.”
He studies me for a few seconds, that quiet intensity back in his eyes. Then, without warning, he asks, “Are you glad you crashed your van, Ruby?”
The question lands deep like a snowball that somehow hits the heart instead of the chest.
“Hmm.” I pretend to think, tapping my chin. “Still waiting to find out the true answer to that one.”
He tilts his head. “Want a hint?”
Before I can answer, he closes the distance. His hands slide around my waist, warm and sure, drawing me flush against him. The breath leaves my lungs. The kiss starts soft, then deepens—slow, deliberate, the kind that leaves me dizzy and certain all at once.
His embrace is absolute. Solid. Like stepping inside the safest, strongest arms I’ve ever known. My palms find his chest, the heat of him soaking through the flannel. He smells like cedar smoke and coffee, like the kind of man who builds shelters and keeps promises.
When he finally pulls back, he stays close enough that his breath brushes my ear.
“The water should be hot,” he murmurs. “If you want to take advantage of it.”
My pulse trips. “That an invitation?”
“Maybe.” His lips graze my temple. “Never know when the lights might flicker again.” He pauses, voice dipping lower. “And whether they do or not…” His hand trails lightly up my spine, settling at the base of my neck. “…I’m ready to make the most of whatever time we’ve got.”
My brain misfires entirely. The man could read the weather or start a fire with one match, but it’s the quiet in his voice that undoes me.
“Beckett…” I whisper, but it comes out more like a plea than a warning.
He smiles, that half-grin that should be illegal. “Go on,” he says softly. “Before I decide the shower’s a two-person operation.”
I retreat before he makes good on that threat. My knees barely cooperate.
Steam curls out of the bathroom as I turn the tap, and for a moment I just stand there, palms on the counter, staring at my reflection. My lips are still kiss-swollen, my cheeks pink from more than the heat. I look like a woman who’s been reminded what being alive feels like.
The water fogs the mirror and erases the proof, but I still feel him everywhere—the steady weight of his hands, the low rumble of his voice. I let his flannel slip off my shoulders and step beneath the spray.
The heat steals my breath. I tilt my head back, letting it run through my hair, down my spine, washing away the last few hours of storm and fear. What it doesn’t wash away is Beckett.
Every time I close my eyes, I see him—standing at the stove, laughing, the quiet strength behind his restraint. There’s something dangerously tender about a man who holds you like he’s protecting both of you from the world.
I brace my palms against the tile and whisper into the steam, “What are you doing, Ruby?”
The answer comes easily now. Falling.
I don’t know what happens when the storm clears or when the roads open, but right now, I allow myself to immerse my body, mind and soul into this feeling.
The water slows to a gentle patter before I shut it off. I wrap a towel around myself, draw a shaky breath, and smile at the fogged-up version of a woman about to walk back out there … to see if the mountain man who kissed her like a promise still looks at her the same way.
I take my time, which is uncharacteristic, but I want every inch of my skin to remember this day. I dry my hair, wrap the big towel around my body and tiptoe to Beckett’s spare bedroom-slash-office where some of my inventory waits.
