Page 10 of Naughty With The Mountain Man
Okay, this is ridiculous.
I throw off the covers, slip my feet into socks with little snowmen wearing sunglasses (do not judge me), and tiptoe down the hall. The living room is dim and gold, shadows from the fire flickering across the ceiling. Micah is on his side, one arm flung over his head, the other braced against the cushion like he’s trying to keep himself from sliding to the floor. His feet hang off the end. Of course they do.
“Psst,” I stage whisper.
He’s instantly awake. There’s no groggy transition, no blink-blink-who’s-there. One second he’s pretending to sleep, the next he’s upright, eyes locked on me, hand halfway to the knife he keeps tucked under a folded blanket near the couch.
I raise both hands. “Whoa. Friendly. It’s just me. Your inconvenient house elf.”
He exhales, the tension loosening a notch. “You should be sleeping.”
“So should you. Or at least not… performing couch origami.” I point to his wildly uncomfortable position. “Switch with me.”
“No.”
“Micah.”
“Ellie.” He drags a hand over his face. “Take the bed.”
“It’s a perfectly good couch.”
“For a person who isn’t my size,” he says dryly. “I’ll manage.”
“You’re not managing,” I argue. “I can hear you fighting for your life out here.”
He looks at me for a long beat, as if trying to decide whether I am, in fact, worth arguing with at midnight. Answer: always.
“I’m not putting you on the couch,” he says finally, flint and certainty. “Non-starter.”
“What if I insist?”
“Don’t.”
“What if I beg?”
“Ellie.”
I grin. “Fine. What ifweboth take the bed and put a comically large pillow wall down the middle like we’re in a 1950s sitcom?”
His expression does a complicated thing I would like to study under laboratory conditions. He stands, and the couch springs practically applaud in relief. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”
My hands fly to my hips. “Absolutely not.”
“I’ve slept in trucks, foxholes, and the back of a Chinook with a broken heater at fifteen thousand feet,” he says. “This floor is a luxury hotel.”
“That’s… an upsetting sentence.” My voice softens. “Micah, seriously. It’s okay if you’re uncomfortable. We can?—”
“I’m not sacrificing your comfort,” he says, no room in the words for anything but truth. “Not on my watch.”
The dog lifts his head like he’s voting in favor of the floor plan. Traitor.
“Okay,” I say, because I’m learning which battles to pick with a human bunker. “At least take a mattress topper or seven.”
He shakes out a wool blanket, then another, moving with efficient, quiet purpose. He makes a nest at the side of the bed—two folded quilts, a rolled sleeping bag as a pillow, second pillow from the bed, the wool on top. He tucks the corner with military precision, then eyes his handiwork like he’s setting a trap.
“Did you just… make a bed on the ground like it’s a normal thing?”
“Yes.”
