Page 4 of Naughty With The Mountain Man
“He’s beautiful,” I say, holding out a tentative hand.
“Smart too,” Beckett replies. “He usually doesn’t warm up to strangers this fast.”
“Guess I must smell like candy canes and Christmas chaos.”
His mouth twitches. “Probably the chaos.”
Ranger gives a soft huff, as if agreeing.
“Boots off,” he says over his shoulder. “Don’t soak the floor.”
I unlace quickly and step in, toes instantly rejoicing against the thick rug. The interior takes my breath for a second. I gaze upward at the high ceilings with exposed rafters. A stone hearth dominates one wall with a long leather couch facing it. The kitchen sits off to the side and looks tidy. Everything gleams with rugged simplicity that saysbuilt to last.
It’s not small, either. Definitely not the hermit shack I expected. More like rugged luxury.
“You live here alone?” I ask, setting my box near the entry.
“Yep.”
I nod slowly, eyes trailing over shelves filled with tools, a guitar resting near the window, and a couple of mounted photographs -- mountain shots, not animals, which earns him silent points.
Beckett starts peeling off the layers of his heavy jacket, and finally the insulated snowsuit. Underneath, he’s wearing a fitted thermal shirt that clings to every broad line of his shoulders and arms. His chest stretches the fabric when he reaches to hang up his snow clothing on a hook by the door. I shouldn’t notice the way the fabric clings, but my brain apparently didn’t get that memo. I have to pretend to check my phone just to avoid staring outright. Oh yeah, still limited service. Oops!
Beckett moves straight to the hearth, crouching down to open the iron grate. He stacks kindling and logs with practiced ease. Light dances over his features bringing his face into focus with his hard jaw and the dark stubble. Unmarried, huh?
The fire crackles to life, throwing warmth and light across the room. Beckett glances back at me. “That should do it.”
“Thanks,” I say, pushing hair off my face. “I’d hug you, but I’m ninety percent frostbite and five percent embarrassment.”
His mouth twitches. “That leaves five percent unaccounted for.”
“Pure charm,” I tell him … just to see his reaction.
Something lights up in his expression. It could be amusement, maybe disbelief. But he looks away, crouching to stoke the fire again.
I take the chance to see what inventory is here with me. I’m still wearing the men’s Santa jacket with the tags attached. It’s probably the warmest thing I’ll find to change into. The problem is it’s now a little snow-soaked.
I pick up a box and look at the label.Holiday Intimates.Fantastic. I immediately close it, cheeks heating.Right. That’s not the one I meant to grab.
He stands, stretching to his full height, and suddenly the cabin feels smaller.
“You hungry?” he asks. “Got stew left from lunch.”
“That depends. How old is lunch?”
He glances at the clock. “Three hours.”
“Then I’m starving.”
He heads toward the kitchen, moving with a grounded confidence that makes me want to follow. I linger near the fire trying to get my body temp up to at least a little below normal. The warmth seeps into me slowly … like my body’s catching up to the fact that I’m safe, alive, and maybe a little smitten with my rescuer.
Beckett moves around his kitchen and it’s interesting to watch. I had no idea that running your van off the road could land you somewhere like this. In the meantime, I catch my reflection in the window — Santa jacket, messy hair, wide eyes. Crap! I look like a woman who just crash-landed in a one of those crazy holiday movies.
When he brings me a steaming bowl and hands me a spoon, our fingers brush. It’s quick, but the spark lingers.
“Thanks,” I say softly.
“Eat,” he says, voice low, back already turned toward the fire.
