Page 9 of Naughty With The Mountain Man
When I turn, Ellie’s watching me over the edge of her book, eyes bright in the firelight. “You look intense,” she says. “Everything okay?”
“Just work,” I answer.
She studies me a second longer, then closes her book and tucks her feet under the blanket. “You know, you frown so much it’s going to give you wrinkles.”
“Maybe I like wrinkles.”
“You don’t.”
She’s smiling now, soft and teasing, and I feel that same stupid pull in my chest. I grab a beer from the fridge instead of answering, because the last thing I need right now is to admit that the idea of her trusting me means more than it should.
Because the truth is simple, and dangerous:
I’m already too close.
And I’m starting to care way too damn much.
5
Ellie
By the time I finish brushing my teeth with the emergency toothbrush from my overnight kit (sparkly mint, thank you very much), the fire has melted from cozy blaze to sleepy glow. The cabin hums softly—old wood settling, wind needling the corners, the big dog by the hearth giving a sigh so dramatic he could win Best Actor in a Winter Nap.
Micah’s setting a glass of water on the nightstand in the small bedroom he told me I could use. “You take the bed,” he says, like that’s non-negotiable. “I’ll crash on the couch.”
I glance at the bed. It’s a nest of flannel sheets and a heavy quilt stitched with stars, the kind of setup that whispershibernationin a voice you don’t argue with. I glance at the couch. It’s… fine. If you’re five foot six and made of marshmallow fluff. Micah is neither.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“That couch is, like, five feet long.”
“I’ve slept on worse.”
“Have you, though?” I give him a look. “Honest question.”
He doesn’t answer. He just hands me the extra pillow he scavenged from somewhere and tips his chin toward the bed. “Lights out soon. We’re up early.”
“So bossy,” I mutter, but I’m smiling, and I’m pretty sure he knows it.
He steps back, lingering in the doorway like he’s rechecking the perimeter with his eyes. I know that look now—the inventory he runs constantly: exits, angles, things that creak. He nods to himself, satisfied, then gives me a soft, rough, “Night, Ellie.”
“Goodnight, Sergeant Buzzkill.”
The corner of his mouth twitches—that almost-smile I’m beginning to collect like rare coins. “Sleep,” he says, and disappears down the hall.
I crawl into bed and am instantly swallowed whole by flannel warmth. It smells like pine and faint smoke—the cabin scent that’s already starting to imprint on my nervous system assafe.I click off the lamp, sink down, and wait for the blissful oblivion of unconsciousness.
It does not arrive.
Instead, I lie there like a starfish, staring at the dark, listening. The stove ticks. The dog snores, a little motorcycle noise that would be annoying if it weren’t adorable. And out in the living room, the world’s tallest man attempts to fold himself onto a couch designed by tiny Scandinavian people with minimalist goals and zero empathy.
There’s a shuffle. A creak. A muffled curse.
“Told you,” I whisper to the ceiling.
Another creak. He tosses. He turns. The springs protest like they’re writing a letter to management.
