Page 7 of Keep Me, Knox (The Mountain Code #5)
Knox
Seeing the way her eyes flick to mine and then away—like she's just as affected by that almost-kiss as I am—has me desperate to finish what we almost just started.
But the radio trills again, reminding me of the impending storm.
I clear my throat. "I should probably check on things outside before it hits. Secure the wood pile. Make sure the generator's ready in case we lose power. That sort of thing.”
She blinks at me with those big, blue eyes. "Can I help?"
"You don't have to—"
"I want to."
The way she says it, firm and sure, reminds me again that she's not some delicate city girl who needs protecting from a little weather. She's spent her life outdoors, in conditions probably worse than whatever this storm's bringing.
"All right," I say. "Put your boots on.”
I watch her lace up her boots with quick, efficient movements, trying not to stare at her bare legs extending from my borrowed hoodie. Outside, the temperature's dropped at least ten degrees since dinner, and the wind's picking up, sending leaves skittering across the yard.
We work together in easy rhythm. She helps me stack wood closer to the house while I check the generator and secure anything that might blow around. She doesn't need instruction. She just sees what needs doing and does it.
"You've done this before," I observe, watching her arrange the logs with practiced efficiency.
"Montana, remember?” she says, smiling.
A particularly strong gust whips through the trees, and she shivers, pulling the hood of the sweatshirt over her head.
"That's enough," I decide. "Let's get inside before the storm hits."
Back in the cabin, she shoves the hood back down and runs her hands through her hair, trying to tame the wind damage. The firelight catches the blonde strands, turning them gold and copper.
She's so fucking beautiful. Something I’ve been keenly aware of since the moment she knocked on my door. But there's something about seeing her here, in my space, helping with my chores, wearing my sweatshirt, that hits different.
Like she could belong here. With me.
"Wine?" I offer, mostly to distract myself from that dangerous line of thinking.
She raises an eyebrow. "You have wine?"
I smirk. "I suppose mountain men are only supposed to drink moonshine?"
She laughs, kicking off her boots. “I didn’t say that. Wine would be lovely.”
I pour two glasses of a Cabernet I've been saving for no particular reason and hand her one. She curls up on the couch, feet tucked under her, and I settle into the chair across from her like I did earlier.
But the distance feels wrong now. Too much space between us.
"So," she says, swirling the wine in her glass. "What do you do when you're not hosting wayward bear researchers?"
"Read. Work in the forge. Fix things that break." I take a sip, considering. "Honestly? Not much that would sound interesting to most people."
"Try me."
"I'm working on a hunting knife right now.
Damascus steel, with a handle I'm carving from elk antler.
It's... meditative, I guess. Taking raw steel and fire, folding it hundreds of times until it becomes something both beautiful and functional.
Finding the metal's personality, working with it instead of against it. "
Her eyes light up. "Can I see it?"
“Now?” I stare up at the ceiling, listening to the drum of the raindrops on the roof.
“I’m not afraid of a little rain.” She’s already pulling her boots back on.
I hesitate. The forge is my private space. Always has been. But something about the genuine interest in her voice makes me nod.
"It's just rough work so far," I warn, leading her through the kitchen to the back door.
The forge is in a separate building behind the cabin, far enough away to contain the heat and noise. We dash through the rain, laughing as we’re pelted with raindrops.
I reach the door, quickly flipping on the overhead lights, illuminating the anvil, the coal forge, racks of hammers and tongs, and on the workbench, the knife.
She goes to the knife immediately, not even bothering to push the wet strands of hair off of her face. She studies the rippling pattern in the steel without touching it.
"Knox," she breathes. "This is incredible."
The blade is taking shape. Eight inches of flowing Damascus steel, the layers creating patterns like water over stone. I've spent weeks folding and forge-welding the metal, building up hundreds of layers. It’s going to be a real beauty when I’m finished.
"The steel tells you what it wants to be," I say, moving to stand beside her. "You just have to listen to it in the fire."
"How long have you been doing this?"
"Tinkering since I was a kid. My uncle taught me basic blacksmithing. But seriously, since the divorce. Turns out heartbreak makes for good forge time."
She looks up at me, wine glass forgotten in her hand. "Were you in love with her?"
The question should catch me off guard, but it doesn't. Maybe because I've been asking myself the same thing for ages.
"I thought I was," I say finally. "But looking back... I think I was in love with the idea of being the man she wanted. Problem was, that man wasn't me."
She nods slowly. "That's the worst kind of loneliness. Being with someone who doesn't really see you."
"Yeah," I say quietly. "It is."
We stand there in the warm light of the forge, surrounded by the smell of coal dust and oil, and I realize this is the first time I've talked about my marriage without feeling bitter about it.
Maybe because she gets it. The loneliness. The pressure to be someone you're not.
"Thank you," she says softly.
"For what?"
"Letting me see this. Your work. It's... it's like getting to see inside your head."
Thunder rumbles outside, closer now, and the lights flicker. She moves closer to me instinctively, and suddenly we're standing too close again, just like in the kitchen.
But this time, I don't step back.
"Sage," I say, her name rough in my throat.
"I know," she whispers. "I feel it too."
When the lights flicker again and stay off, plunging us into darkness, it feels like a sign.
Like the mountain itself is telling us to stop fighting this thing between us.