Page 6 of Her Mountain Man Protector (Crave County: Mountain Men Love Curves #7)

HOLDEN

Mila and I start in the living room, tearing open cardboard boxes full of my stuff. I try to focus on unpacking, but I keep looking over at Mila, watching the way she gently handles my things like she’s scared to break them.

God, she’s adorable.

Her hair is loose this morning, tumbling past her shoulders in a thick wave of chestnut brown, her curvy body still wrapped up in my shirt from last night. She’s so engrossed in her task that she doesn’t notice me staring, and I feel a familiar throbbing in my boxers as I look at her.

I want her. So fucking badly.

There’s no point pretending I don’t. I spent all night tossing and turning, struggling to ignore the hard bulge between my legs.

The pent-up desire is driving me crazy. My whole body is on edge, and all I can think about is Mila—touching her, kissing her, claiming her.

I remind myself that she’s too young, too innocent, too vulnerable.

Hell, she just ran away from her own damn wedding.

The last thing she needs to deal with is my feelings.

But no matter how much I try to reason with myself, I know my self-control is hanging by a thread right now.

“Cute photos,” Mila says, pulling me from my thoughts as she sets some framed pictures down on the mantel. “Is this your daughter?”

“Yeah, that’s Isabelle at her graduation.” I gesture to the next photo. “And that one’s from when we went to see the Denver Broncos play.”

“Cool.” Mila smiles as she reaches into a box and pulls out a stack of books. “You like to read?”

“Sure. Non-fiction, mostly. History, politics, things like that.”

She nods, inspecting the spines. “I like to read, too.”

“What kind of books?”

“Romance…and horror.”

I suppress a chuckle. “Damn. Those are two pretty different genres.”

“What can I say? I’m a sucker for Stephen King.

I have all his books hidden in my closet.

” Her eyes twinkle at me conspiratorially before she heads for the empty bookcase on the other side of the room and slots my books inside.

For a second, I wonder why a woman in her twenties would need to hide her books.

But the thought dissolves when I catch her gaze, my thumping heart pushing everything else from my mind but those big green eyes.

I’m not usually the kind of guy who invites people over.

But having Mila here feels so right. She makes the whole cabin feel warm and sunny.

So much more like home. I love how interested she seems in my stuff, asking about all my pictures and books and decorations.

With anybody else, I’d be irritated, craving privacy.

But not with Mila. Her energy is infectious, and I help her unpack more books, watching her from the corner of my eye.

“Oh!” she exclaims as she sets another box on the table, opening it up carefully. “You like to garden?”

I peer into the box. It’s full of gardening tools and packets of seeds, along with some flower pots and a pair of thick gloves. I’d almost forgotten about it.

“Not exactly,” I tell her. “My mom loved to garden. She died a long time ago, soon after I adopted Isabelle. I always meant to start a garden just like hers, but never got around to it in the suburbs.” I rifle through the box, looking at all the varieties of seeds. “Figured I could start one here.”

“That’s really sweet, Holden. I’m sorry about your mom.”

I murmur my thanks. It’s been over twenty years, but thinking about her still makes my heart squeeze with bittersweet emotion. Whenever I picture her, she’s always pottering around in the backyard, watering and pruning, her gloves covered in mud.

“I’ve always dreamed of having a garden, too,” Mila says softly, like she’s admitting a secret. “With herbs, flowers, fruits, vegetables…nothing big or fancy, just a simple little patch with lots of color.”

“Sounds perfect.” I glance at her, my heart thumping at the wistful look on her face. “You don’t have something like that already, back in the Hamptons?”

“No.” She lets out a sigh. “Mom says gardening is dirty and not a suitable hobby for a young woman. She says that’s what we pay the gardener for.”

There’s a hint of sadness in Mila’s voice, and it’s not the first time I’ve heard her sound upset when talking about her family.

I’ve been trying not to push her too hard, but I have so many questions about her life and the people in it.

The curiosity burns almost as bright as my desire as I look at her angelic face, smooth and soft.

I need to know.

I need to know why this beautiful woman fled her wedding. Why she seems to be avoiding going back to her family. But most of all, I need to know about the man she left at the altar. The man whose marriage proposal she accepted.

It hits all over again. The jealousy. The sickening pressure in my chest when I think about Mila being promised to another man.

Red-hot rage burns in my veins at the thought of him, this faceless groom.

I try to remind myself that she didn’t marry him.

She ran away from him. But my stomach still churns when I think about Mila walking down the aisle toward someone else—someone who isn’t me.

Fuck, I’m losing my mind.

“Holden?”

My anger melts away at the sound of Mila’s sweet voice. I focus my gaze on hers, my heart flooding with affection at the concern on her face.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

I nod. Then I reach for her hand, clasping it in mine, my skin buzzing at the contact. Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t pull away. She lets me lead her to the couch, and we sit down together. Mila looks nervous, like she’s expecting bad news.

“Listen…” I begin.

“It’s okay, Holden.” She squeezes my hand. “You don’t have to say anything. You’ve been so kind to me, and I’m so grateful for everything. Just give me a second to grab my stuff?—”

“What?” I frown at her. “Your stuff?”

She nods uncertainly. “Yes, so I can leave…”

“Leave?” A flash of panic grips my throat. “You want to leave?”

“No,” Mila says quickly. “But I assume that’s what you’re about to ask me? You’ve already done so much for me, and I know I’ve outstayed my welcome?—”

The thought of this sweet angel ever “outstaying her welcome” is so crazy that for a second I just stare at her blankly.

“Mila, I’m not asking you to leave,” I say firmly. “I want you to stay.”

“Oh…” Color rises to her cheeks as she looks at me. “So what is it?”

“I want to know what happened at the wedding.” I lean toward her, trying not to sound as desperate for answers as I feel. “Why did you run away? Why didn’t you stay with your family? And who—” I grit my teeth, “—who was the groom?”

Mila looks down at her lap. Silence stretches between us, but I don’t dare to say another word. I don’t want to do anything that could scare her off or encourage her to leave. Eventually, after a minute of quiet, she looks up at me decisively. Then she begins to speak.