Page 2 of My Mountain Man Grump
My stomach bottoms out and my heartbeat, already skittish, jumps up a notch. It’s Cole. Rough bearded, shaggy-haired, and looking just as hot in real life as his photo.
Joyce must have told him where I was staying and he’s come to meet me. My heart does a little flutter at the thought.
I’ve only seen two pictures of Cole, a blurry one of him cutting wood with his shirt off and the smiling one with his kids, their faces blurred out, which I understood. He didn’t want to send their images to a stranger, although that didn’t stop me from sending a rather intimate picture to him.
My cheeks flush when I think of the exchanges we’ve had. The emails, the texts, and one night after I’d had a glass of wine, I boldly sent him a picture of my boobs. He responded with a smiley face and asked when I was coming to visit.
I’ve never been the type of woman to send nudes, but I was feeling bold, and if you’re going to have an adventure you may as well jump straight in.
He’s seen my boobs, I’ve sent him cupcakes I baked, and we’ve had short email exchanges but never quite managed a phone call.
Now here I am, my heart fluttering like a wounded bird and my stomach doing flip flops.
Cole parks his pickup in front of the cabin and steps out of the car.
He’s even more striking in real life. The photos didn’t give a sense of Cole’s height or his broad shoulders. The man’s built as solidly as one of the huge Ponderosa pines that surround this property.
His dark hair is pulled back in a man bun, which seems oddly masculine on his bearded, rugged face.
He’s wearing bright orange overalls, which means he’s just come from work. He told me all about his job as a helicopter pilot for the local search and rescue team.
I smooth my hair back, hoping I don’t look as tired as I feel and that my clothes, my favorite high-waisted green skirt that accentuates my hips and hides my stomach rolls and a tucked in Guns n’ Roses t-shirt, aren’t too rumpled from my travels.
My palms are slick and I clasp them together nervously as Cole steps out of his pickup.
“Hi!” I don’t know whether to hug him or shake his hand or do what the daring part of me wants to do, which is kiss him.
I lurch forward, deciding a hug is appropriate for someone who’s come all this way. A heady scent of pinewood and diesel reaches my senses and I stumble, falling the last part of the way into his solid chest. Colecatches me awkwardly, and instead of pulling me into an embrace sets me back on my feet.
I step back awkwardly, jiggling from foot to foot and trying to compose my senses.
He frowns at me. And I beam back at him. But instead of smiling, his frown deepens.
He doesn’t look excited to see me or nervous. In fact, the way he’s looking at me is like I’m a stranger who he’s never met before and not a woman whose boobs he’s seen.
“Are you lost?” His voice is a deep rumble that makes my insides quiver, but what he says makes me stop cold.
“It’s me!” I say awkwardly. “Carrie.”
His dark eyebrows pull even further together, and he tilts his head to one side in confusion. He definitely doesn’t look like a man who’s meeting his potential lover for the first time. He looks like a man who’s trying to figure out why the woman in front of him is smiling at him like they’re old friends.
“Do I know you?”
My stomach drops. This isn’t the man I’ve been communicating with for the last three months. This man in front of me, Cole, if that’s even his name, has no idea who I am.
2
COLE
The woman in front of me skips from foot to foot like a nervous hen. Her dark brown hair has fallen out of whatever messy bun she had it in and the mountain breeze picks up the loose strands, making them dance around her oval-shaped face. One of them catches on her lip, and my gaze is drawn to it.
Her lips are full and pink, and there’s a sheen to them like they’re coated in gloss or some other girly shit, and I bet it’s got a flavor. I wonder if she’d taste like strawberries if I kissed her. Which is ridiculous. I haven’t kissed a woman since God knows when, which may be the reason I’m fantasizing about kissing this one.
Her hand brushes the strand of hair away and it falls to her neck, trailing over her clavicle.
She’s smiling at me like we’re best friends, and I search my brain for the memory of her. Did we go to high school together? Is she a distant relative or an old friend of Mel’s?
But I’d remember a face like hers. And I’d certainly remember her figure. She’s got curves just the way I like them. Full breasts and hips and a softness around her belly. She’s wearing solid walking boots with scuff marks and a hint of dried mud.
