Page 5

Erika

W hen Fletcher told me he'd take care of me, I thought it would be at my home, but he's got other ideas.

After I'm discharged from the clinic, he takes me home to pack a bag.

My motion is limited because of my injury, so I have to go through the embarrassment of him going through my underwear drawer.

I'm a little withdrawn during our ride up the mountain, but then I remember my car.

"Fletcher, what happened to my car?"

"I had it towed, and it's at the mechanic's shop right now."

"Oh, thanks. I owe you so much already."

"Don't think of it like that. I care about you and I want to help you as much as possible."

"No more hiding, huh?"

I don't know why I say that, and I expect him to pull back, but he just smiles.

"I won't hide from you anymore, sweetheart. You're going to see so much of me you'll be trying to escape my evil clutches."

"There's not one evil bone in your body, Fletcher Connors."

"You don't know me that well."

"Then I'm glad we'll be spending this time together so I can get to know all about you."

He reaches over the console and gives my hand a gentle squeeze, and just that tiny show of affection makes my heart start beating faster. For the rest of the drive, I look at his handsome and rugged face: his salt and pepper beard and beautiful brown eyes.

I must acknowledge that, after working with this man for the past six months, I've developed feelings for him. It's why it hurt so much when he stopped coming to the gallery. Now there's this certainty that we should spend this time of healing together.

I'm glad he's not going to hide from me any longer, but I wish he'd open up about why he did that. He only hurt us, not that there is an us right now. When we get to his cabin, I realize it's not really the tiny, worn-down shack I imagined when I thought of his home.

I don't know why I had such a poor picture of what his home would be like, but this looks like a mansion to me.

"Fletcher, your house is amazing."

"You haven't even seen the inside yet. You'll love it. I had a ton of fun building it."

"You built this yourself?"

"I had help, but I did most of the work."

I go to open the truck's door, but he signals me to wait. He gets out of the car and goes to my side, opening the door for me. Before I know it, I'm being carried like a bride toward what will be my home for the next few days.

Once we're inside, I see how every single inch of the place has Fletcher's touch.

There are carvings on the walls, and some of his wooden pieces of art are in each room.

There's a masculine feel to the place, but a thought goes through me that I can easily put some feminine touches to this beautiful house, making it a home.

I chide myself. I'm not his bride, moving in after our wedding. He's just helping me out. Knowing I'll see him every day still gives me a thrill, though.

"Do you want me to put you to bed or set you down here in the living room?"

The mention of a bed makes me flustered, and I hide my face in his neck.

"Living room is fine. I'm tired of being in bed."

He gently sets me down on a recliner and stands in front of me. He looks like a beautiful giant looking down at me like that.

"I'm here to serve you, sweetheart. Whatever your heart desires, I'll give you."

The words make me shiver. They are somehow more personal than just him helping me out while I recuperate. They make me feel vulnerable.

"I'd like some water, and if you could bring me my work bag, I'd be set. I won't bother you for a bit."

"Let's get this straight. Nothing you say or do will be a bother to me."

His tone is sincere, and I lean back into the recliner, basking in his presence. These next few days are going to be harder than I can imagine.

The afternoon passes quickly as I message numerous customers about my situation and the delays it will cause.

There is one event at the end of the month that I can't postpone, and I'll need Fletcher's help to pull it off.

My mind, however, is still on the delicious mountain man that's somewhere in this house.

I close my laptop and put it on the coffee table in front of me. I try to get up from the recliner, but there's a twinge of pain when I try, and I cry out. Fletcher is immediately beside me, and I don't know where he came from.

"I was going to go look for you."

"What do you need, sweetheart?"

My brain immediately responds I need you , but thankfully, I don't blurt it out. This is not the time for such confessions.

"Let me move you to the kitchen, and you can watch as I fix dinner for us."

I gasp when he picks me up as easily as if I were a doll. There's no pain, though, so I take it as a win.

"You cook?"

"I know a few things. This time will be easy, though, only a chicken salad. I might have some canned soup I can heat. See, nothing too difficult."

"I'll be the judge of that."

His kitchen is huge and he sits me on one of the stools in front of a big island where he's already set out vegetables for the salad.

"I've never asked you, how long have you lived here in Hunter's Peak?"

"I've been here for a while. Fifteen years. I came after I left the military. I was a bit lost back then, and the peace and quiet the mountain gave was very attractive. It's the best decision I've ever made."

"Where did you learn how to work with wood?"

He looks at me with a smile on his face. It's surprising, but after working together for the past six months to sell his art, I've never questioned him about his background. I felt like it would have been intrusive, and I wanted him to trust me.

"My grandfather taught me when I was growing up. I helped him at his workshop, building furniture and other pieces that people commissioned from him."

"Sounds like you have some good memories there."

"I do. My grandfather was a great man. I miss him."

I watch him intently as he chops up vegetables and mixes them into a salad bowl. He adds yummy things like chicken, bacon, and grated cheese, and by the end of it, I'm drooling. After the soup is heated, he serves us and takes a seat beside me.

Wishing he had sat in front of me so that I could take in his rugged beauty, I shift in my seat uncomfortably.

"Do you want a more comfortable seat? We can do this in the dining room."

"Let's try that."

"Stay right there."

He takes our food away and then comes back to get me. I'm surprised how I'm not in any pain when he picks me up to transport me, but when I try to do it myself, I get pain as a result.

The dining room is majestic, and the table, which I assume he built himself, is magnificent. The attention to detail is astonishing, and as we sit across from each other, I'm thankful that this man was brought into my life.

"Is that better?"

"Much, thank you."

For a few minutes, I just pick at my food because I want to know more about this man, and I don't know how to approach him. All we used to talk about before was business. This feels more personal, more intimate.

"Fletcher, thank you so much for offering to help me with my recovery."

"I would do anything for you."

I blush profusely, but I don't stay quiet.

"You say such things. Do you mean them?"

"Of course I do, sweetheart. I know I was being a coward by not coming down to see you at the gallery, but it was an internal battle." He continues. "You're so young and smart and beautiful. I'm an old, broken man who doesn't deserve you."

I reach over the table to grab his hand. Mine is small and soft against his large and calloused one, proving how much of a hard worker he is.

"Don't talk about yourself like that, Fletcher. I won't have it."

"Is the food okay?"

"Don't change the subject. I get to decide who I want in my life, and you are certainly someone that I value and care enough to have in my life."

"Why did you open the gallery?"

I'm startled at another attempt to change the conversation, and let it go this time. We'll have plenty of time to discuss the deeper feelings we have for one another.

"I was an art major in college. I had all these big dreams, but when they were shattered, I walked away from art. It didn't take long for me to realize that I couldn't stay away. I needed the jolt of creativity that came from seeing what other artists had created."

"I haven't seen any of your work in the gallery."

"I don't sell my work."

"Why not?"

"Can we talk about something else?"

"What kind of art do you make?"

I give out an exasperated huff and put my fork down.

"Watercolors right now. It used to be acrylics. I like to try different things out."

"I'd love to see some of your work. I didn't see anything like that at your house."

"There's a workshop in the back of the house where everything is."

I cringe at the thought of how I've hidden my work from the public. I just don't trust that my art is worthy of being seen by others. I'm just glad I keep doing it. Otherwise, something might have died deep inside me.

"Will you show me someday?" he asks.

"I…um. I don't know."

"Your art is a special part of you and what makes you unique in this world. I understand if you don't want to share it with me just yet. I'll keep trying. It will give me an inside look at who you really are."

I stay silent and pick up my fork to continue eating. Am I ready to be that vulnerable with a man that I have feelings toward? Will he understand my need to keep my work a secret? I decide to focus on the food in front of me and set aside all these turbulent feelings that have arisen in me.

"What was the military like?"

"Intense. Made a lot of friends. Lost a lot of friends. I'm glad I left when I did. I felt like I was being suffocated and needed to escape from it all."

From the look on his face, I realize he was really hurt by the loss he experienced. I like how vulnerable he lets himself be around me, and I give him a smile to reassure him that I'm on his side and that he's okay now.

"Let me clear these dishes up. Do you want dessert? I've got some rocky road ice cream."

"I'm more of a strawberry kind of girl."

"I've got that too."

He serves us ice cream, and we sit in companionable silence while we eat. It feels so right to be here, sitting next to him. There's like one inch between us, but I can feel the heat emanating from his body. It's like he's a living furnace, and I wonder if he touched me, if I'd be branded for life.

"Ready for bed?" he asks.

"I am."

He helps me to my room and watches over me as I slowly but surely get ready for bed. I'm embarrassed when he stays on the other side of the bathroom door just in case I need him. If he only knew how much I already need him.

When I'm under the covers, he kisses my forehead and wishes me goodnight. I wish I had an excuse to make him stay with me tonight and every other night after, but I don't. As I close my eyes, my hope is that I dream of him so that we can spend more time together.