Page 16 of Naughty With The Mountain Man
I meet her gaze. “I’m where I need to be.”
She studies me for a long second. Then she nods, slow and sure. “Okay.”
But I see it in her eyes—the fear curling at the edges. The worry she won’t say out loud. And I swear to God, if I get the chanceto wrap my hands around the throat of the person doing this, I won’t hesitate.
Let them come.
I’m ready.
7
Ellie
I’ve never felt more like a guest in someone else’s life than I do standing barefoot in Micah’s kitchen, sipping coffee from a mug the size of my face, and watching him sharpen a knife like we’re not just… casually surviving a stalking situation.
He’s so at ease in his space—silent, focused, completely unaware of howdevastatingly attractivehe is when he’s doing something as simple as slicing an apple with precision that should be illegal. And despite the tension that lingers under every breath we take, like we’re both waiting for the other shoe to drop… this cabin feelssafe.
It feels like a little world.
His world.
And I’m starting to realize how badly I don’t want to leave it. Or him.
He glances over, catching me staring. “You okay?”
I smile, even though my stomach flips like a gymnast. “Yeah. Just thinking.”
“Dangerous habit.”
“You would know,” I shoot back.
He huffs quietly and goes back to his task, but I can tell—he’s listening. Always is. Like he’s tuned into me at a frequency no one else bothers with.
And I can’t keep doing nothing. I’ve been here for days, eating his food, hogging his hot water, napping with his dog, and making his floor my personal trauma confessional.
I need togivesomething back. Anything.
“You know,” I say, trying to sound casual, “for someone who lives in a literal postcard, your cabin’s kind of… emotionally barren.”
He pauses mid-slice. “What?”
I gesture vaguely to the walls. “It’s December, Micah. Your house hasno Christmas vibes. None. Not a single twinkle light. Not even a pine-scented candle. It's like living inside a brooding lumberjack’s soul.”
His brow lifts. “That’s… oddly specific.”
“I call it like I see it.”
He leans against the counter. “You want to decorate?”
“Idowant to decorate. Let me Christmas-ify this place. It'll be like emotional CPR.”
His silence says he’s debating whether this is a trap.
Then, finally: “There’s a box in the attic. Hasn’t been touched in years.”
My heart leaps. “You’re serious?”
He nods, then jerks his chin toward the hallway. “Attic’s above the closet in the spare room. I’ll get the ladder.”
