Page 10 of Mountain Daddy
Breath ragged, eyes tortured.
“We shouldn’t,” he says hoarsely.
A slice of cold opens my heart.
“I know,” I whisper, even though everything in me aches at the loss of him.
He steps back another inch, like he needs distance to breathe. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I swallow. “We’re tired. It’s the storm. It’s?—”
“It’s that I want to,” he says quietly.
My heart stops.
He looks away like he regrets admitting it, shoulders tense, jaw tight.
“You can have the room. I’ll take the couch.”
I nod, because I can’t trust my voice, and slip past him into the bedroom.
Later, as I lie there beneath his heavy comforter, staring up at the ceiling beams while the wind lashes the cabin. His scent is everywhere. Woodsmoke, cedar, something warm and unmistakably him.
I inhale it, filling my lungs. I wish I could bottle up this scent and keep it with me always.
How am I supposed to sleep like this?
Every time I close my eyes, I feel the ghost of his lips on mine.
Soft. Careful. Hungry.
Every time I shift, I imagine him beside me, arm heavy around my waist, bodies tangled in the warmth.
It’s torture.
It’s perfect.
I bury my face in his pillow and try not to imagine what it would feel like to wake up in his arms.
I fail spectacularly.
The storm is still raging, but inside the cabin, everything is warm.
Wells made pancakes while I helped Elsie braid her hair, and for the first time since leaving Nebraska, something in my chest eases.
Maybe it’s the coziness.
Maybe it’s the routine.
Maybe it’s the way Wells keeps watching me like he’s trying not to.
By afternoon, we’ve settled into the kind of domestic bliss that feels impossible for people like us.
Elsie stands on a stool at the counter, tongue poking out in concentration as she decorates a star-shaped cookie with red frosting and way too many sprinkles.
Wells leans over her shoulder. “That looks… festive.”
“It looks like a unicorn sneezed,” I tease.
