Page 4 of Christmas With The Broken Mountain Man
Three states and two rental cars later, I ended up in Reno. That's when I remembered the crazy matchmaking service Tasha had set up for me months ago. I'd forgotten all about it until their "Your Match Is Waiting!" email arrived.
Mason Walsh. Whisper Vale, Nevada. Small mountain town, middle of nowhere. Perfect.
I browse through my phone, finding the profile his sister created. Therapist specializing in trauma. Former high school teacher. Quiet, dependable, respected in the community. All good things, but what sold me was the location, remote enough to disappear, but with enough civilization that I could eventually find work.
I unpack my meager belongings, carefully hanging my clothes in the closet like I'm planning to stay. Because I am. I have nowhere else to go, and despite his initial reluctance, Mason Walsh seems like a decent man. Maybe even a safe one.
The thought of safety brings unexpected tears to my eyes. I brush them away quickly. Crying never fixed anything.
Instead, I do what I always do when anxiety threatens to overwhelm me, I clean. By the time I hear Mason's truck rumbling up the driveway three hours later, I've scrubbed his kitchen to a shine, organized his spice rack alphabetically, and started a pot of homemade chicken soup.
"What's all this?" he asks, stamping snow from his boots in the entryway.
"Just a thank you for letting me stay." I ladle soup into a bowl. "Hope you're hungry."
He eyes the kitchen like he's not sure what happened to his original one. "You didn't have to do this."
"I know. But cooking calms me." I slide the bowl across the counter toward him. "Eat while it's hot."
To my surprise, he doesn't argue. He pulls up a stool and takes a spoonful, his eyebrows rising in appreciation.
"This is really good."
"Thanks. My grandma's recipe." I smile, watching him eat. There's something intensely satisfying about feeding a man who clearly doesn't take proper care of himself. His fridge had contained nothing but condiments and leftover takeout when I arrived.
"So," he says between bites, "are we going to talk about what's really going on here?"
My stomach clenches. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that black eye isn't from falling off a ladder." He sets his spoon down, those blue eyes gentle but unwavering. "And I'm guessing your sudden interest in marrying a stranger isn't a whim."
I busy myself wiping down an already clean countertop. "I told you why I'm here."
"You told me what you wanted me to hear." His voice lacks accusation, just simple certainty.
"Isn't that what everyone does when they first meet someone?" I challenge, turning to face him. "Present their best selves?"
"Is this your best self? Running from something, or someone, with a bruised face and a suitcase of hastily packed clothes?"
Heat rises to my cheeks. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know you're scared. I know you're trying very hard to appear like you're not." He pushes his empty bowl away. "And I know that whatever you're running from, it followed you here."
My blood turns to ice. "What do you mean?"
"A black SUV with California plates has driven past my cabin three times since you arrived." He says it calmly, but his eyes have hardened. "Should I be concerned?"
My legs go weak, and I sink onto a stool. "I'm sorry. I didn't think he'd find me here."
Mason's expression doesn't change, but his jaw tightens. "Who's 'he'?"
"My ex." The words taste bitter. "He's... possessive. And connected. I thought I was careful, but..."
"But he found you anyway." Mason finishes my thought.
I nod, unable to meet his eyes. This is it. He'll tell me to leave now, to take my problems elsewhere. Why wouldn't he? I've brought danger to his doorstep.
Instead, he stands and walks to a cabinet near the refrigerator. He pulls out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.
