Page 9 of Unwrapped By the Grumpy Mountain Man
“Goldie, listen.” The nickname slips naturally. I ignore the curiosity that bleeds in her eyes while that soft smile paints those full peach lips that call to me. Trouble.
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I have a phone call I need to make.”
The rain has dissipated, but the roads are going to be slick, especially heading down the mountain. No fucking way that beat up old Ford won’t be slipping and sliding into rocks or a ditch.
“If you need a ride back with the roads being what they are…I can see what I can do,” I reluctantly offer.
Just imagining being trapped in the small confines of my truck, enveloped in her sunflower scent, would be sweet torture I’d hate myself later for when I’m up at night, obsessing, tempted. I’ve kept away from temptation for years. I’m done letting women manipulate me. My girls need their father.
“I saw your ad,” she continues, ignoring my offer, “and I’m not sure what you’re looking for, but I believe we could help each other.” She opens cabinets, instinct taking her to the correct ones where I have plates, cups, then she’s opening drawers, finding the utensils.
“I told you, this is a misunderstanding. My lawyer has a death wish and did something I never gave him permission to do. I’m sorry for wasting your time,” I inch closer toward the door, pushing a not-so-subtle hint. Which she is blatantly ignoring.
She grins, and I see it. A mischievous angel. There’s some fire under all that sugar. Like my Lucy, sugar and spice. God help me. I need this woman out of my house. Out of my mind.
Violet.Her name is Violet. She’s a perfect blend of golden summer and violet wildflowers. That’s exactly how she smells, too, like sunflowers and wildflowers blended together.
Violet sets a plate with a large slice of chicken pot pie. The steam from the still-hot dish wafts into my kitchen, then the smell hits me. I groan. Hell, that smells fantastic. At my reaction, she smiles, causing the blues in her eyes to twinkle like damn Christmas lights.
She opens my fridge and peruses. “Water or beer?” she asks.
My body has a life of its own while my brain fights the losing battle. I move into the kitchen, grumpy and dragging, being equally pulled in by the savory, seasoned scents of that freaking pie. I heavily sit my ass on the barstool.
“Coke,” I grunt.
“Perfect,” she laughs, and I might die and let her angelic guidance take me to heaven…or hell, honestly. “Crisp, cold, and sweet to cut the savory richness.”
I watch, dumbfounded as she does the wild action of reaching up on tiptoes to grab a glass from the cabinet. The beige long-sleeve under her brown overalls rids up, revealing soft, creamy skin I want to sink my fingers into. Clearing my throat, I take my eyes off her and focus on studying the layers of this pie.
“You could’ve just popped the can and given it to me,” I tell her, taking the fork and piercing the buttery crust.
“Sure, when you’re out and about, but this is your home, Hudson.” Damn, my name rides off her tongue like it was meant to mold the two syllables. “I make a point of enjoying the little things in life. It may seem like a luxury, but I believe that how we treat ourselves in our own home, when no one is watching, sets a precedent for how we carry ourselves in life.”
“How old are you?” I ask, surprised by her profound philosophy.
“Twenty-two,” she continues to smile, setting a napkin next to my glass, filled with ice and Coke.
“Shit,” I almost choke, leaning back in the stool.
“The application mentioned you’re older,” she starts.
“Way fucking older, Goldie.”
Her head tilts at the nickname. “Sixteen years is nothing.”
“If a man sixteen years older than any of my daughters, once they grow up, tried anything, I’d rip his throat out and bury his body in the mountain.” Shit. Limp dick boys, then men will want to date my girls when they’re of age.
My sternum squeezes my ribs, making it harder to breathe.
“You have daughters? Plural?” she asks, surprised, but doesn’t look put off by the idea.
Exhaling heavily, I lean my forearms against the butcher block counter.
“Violet.” Her blue pupils dilate at hearing her name.Ignore that, Hud.“I have three girls. All under ten. My lawyer thought getting married would help me win them back. This isn’t a game for me. I don’t plan on bringing a strange woman into my home, legally tying me and the girls to her, risking their safety. My lawyer was out of his mind to put that ad out. I’m sorry you came all this way.”
“You need to win them? Legally?” she inquires.
Not wanting to reveal more details than I already have, I bypass her question. “You’re a beautiful young woman. You have plenty of time in life. You’ll find a good, honest man you can marry someday. You don’t need to go through whatever asinine agency put this shitshow idea together.”
