Page 3 of My Forbidden Mountain Man (Summer in the Pines #1)

Violet

Sleeping in—whatever day of the week it is—feels like stolen luxury.

No frantic midnight wake-ups, jerking awake to Jeremy’s off-key serenades for whatever starry-eyed admirer has wandered backstage.

No crack-of-dawn scrambles to scribble down a melody before it slips away.

Just the heavy comfort of blankets against bare skin, the cabin’s pine-scented air, and the slow, delicious awareness that time is mine to waste.

Oh, and the view isn’t bad either—a certain distractingly hunky man moving through the space like he has all the patience in the world.

Logan . When I find him cooking breakfast on day two of my stay, I can see my exhaustion wasn’t playing tricks on my eyes.

He’s still hot. Like, eye-opening, sexual awakening hot.

No wonder I never took Jeremy’s offerings for sex. Any other guy that I accepted was just to pass the time.

When I look at Logan, I get this new sensation I’ve never felt before. A tingling in my gut, something light and easy.

I want to be the one to ask him for his attention. Hell, even better, I want to work for it.

This is no good.

If I cave to these wants, what’s stopping him from feeling uncomfortable and asking me to leave?

I really like sleeping in.

I also like the look that forms in his eyes when he looks my way. Just like now, when he hears the floor creak beneath my bare feet.

One nonchalant glance turns into a choking sound catching at the back of his throat.

“Is that what you wore around your bandmates?”

His voice is calm, but there’s a roughness beneath it—like gravel under polished leather. A warning to keep my distance, a sensation I choose to ignore.

I glance down at myself and take in my sleepwear. Thin cotton shorts, a tank top clinging to every curve to beat the heat. Bare skin everywhere else. I guess I never noticed it. Didn’t even think about putting a bra on this early in the morning.

Even though he warned about how cool it gets at night, my mind helped me stay toasty through the late hours. So yeah, my wardrobe isn’t terrible.

“Most of the time,” I say, drifting closer. The cabin’s warmth licks up my thighs, but it’s nothing compared to the heat in his gaze. “Sometimes it’s even less, if you can believe it.”

A beat. His jaw flexes.

“Then again, we’re very comfortable in our own skins,” I add, tilting my head at him before letting my hip brush the counter beside him, close enough to catch the scent of him— woodsmoke and more of that piney scent. “I’m not making you uncomfortable, am I?”

His eyes drop—just a flash, but I see it. The way his stare lingers on the dip of my waist, the swell of my chest. He’s quick to look away, but not quick enough.

Unless my imagination is playing tricks on me, I think he might be half as interested in me as I am in him.

“Don’t want you getting cold, that’s all.” His grip tightens on the wooden spoon, knuckles whitening as he pushes around the sausage links. The poor utensil creaks under the pressure.

I don’t need to look down to know my nipples are turning into little peaks. Is it the cool temperature? No, of course not.

Did he catch a glimpse of them? Does he know the true cause?

Sinking my teeth into the bottom of my lip, I fight between asking this man to warm me up, and taking a seat before I do something stupid.

Thanks to the pulse between my thighs, my legs have a little quiver to them as I make the smart decision to turn away and walk toward the table.

Unfortunately, I’m not always completely smart. I’m too addicted to toeing the line.

I keep my eyes locked in his direction as I hoist myself onto the edge of the table, the wood cool against my bare thighs. My lips catch between my teeth, but it’s no use—a slow, wicked smile curls anyway.

He’ll scold me for this.

Any second now, that deep, graveled voice will rumble about manners, about chairs existing for a reason, and I’ll blink up at him with all wide-eyed innocence, swing my legs down, and play the good girl.

Until then?

I let my feet dangle, kicking them lazily back and forth, the hem of my shorts riding up just enough to tease. The rhythm is careless, but my gaze isn’t—every sway, every shift, is an invitation. Anything to get his attention back on me.

No quick glimpses like he’s afraid he’ll get caught.

Look at me. Please.

Every time he does, the thrill that fills me is almost as satisfying as the touch I want.

When that heavy, dark stare is pointed in my direction, it’s like he’s peeling back every layer of cotton and skin between us.

Like he already knows exactly where my mind went last night—tangled in sheets, his name a silent scream in my throat as I dreamed of those eyes watching me while my fingers—

A sharp inhale. The memory alone has my thighs pressing together, heat pooling low. His fault. All of it. The damp cling of my panties this morning, the restless ache still humming under my skin.

The spoon clatters against the pan. His jaw works, and he doesn’t have to look to know what I’m playing at.

Finally.

His head turns, slow, deliberate. When those eyes land on me—all I can do not to arch under the weight of it is stare back.

I want to say something flirtatious, something to get him to abandon cooking to give me the attention I need.

If I open my mouth, there won’t be smooth words coming out. No, it’ll be a desperation I can’t control. That’s what Logan does to me.

It’s wrong, but fuck, I know it’ll feel right if I cross the invisable line between us.

“You look like you’re starving.” Kicking the air, my lips curve higher. “That food almost done, or are you going to burn it?”

A beat. The air between us crackles.

Then—in my head, I let my imagination unfold the next scene.

The spoon clattering against the counter as he opts to let our entire breakfast burn.

His hands on me before I can blink—rough palms sliding under my thighs, yanking me to the edge of the table with a thud that shakes the ground before shoving them open wide enough to make room for his broad hips.

My breath hitching as he leans in, close enough that his scent—warm spice and something wild—floods my senses.

“Five more minutes.” As his words swat away the fog flooding my thoughts, he turns and lets out a soft sigh.

Only in your fantasies, Violet.

No kidding.

* * *

The days in this cabin turn into a blur. A week of silence passes by in a blur, and I adjust as best as I can.

Logan has a pattern, and I follow along with him, creating one of my own. Some of his activities overlap with my schedule, as I often find myself invading his space on purpose.

Eventually, he’s going to get tired of all my pushing. I’m waiting for it.

So, after another delicious breakfast, I check my phone for any messages or social media posts. The service out here sucks, and it’s what I tell myself for why my inbox is mostly empty.

There’s some spam, of course. Word has gotten around about my replacement, so there are a few talent agencies that would love to use my skills for different bands.

None from Jeremy. No apologies, no regrets, nothing .

I hope he gets strep throat.

My mother hasn’t tried messaging me either. Though by the little image of her face tucked in the corner, she has seen my last string of messages.

Good to know that she’s at least alive. Ugh . Eyeroll.

“You don’t have to come.” Logan’s voice cuts through my agitation like a sharp knife as he works on lacing his hiking boots.

Every day, right before lunch, he walks a couple of miles to build up an appetite. Says the fresh air is good for the soul. I told him I wanted to join him while I sucked down my coffee. He’s been trying to talk me out of it since.

He thinks I can’t survive a couple of mosquito bites and an uphill climb. Well, I’m in the mood to prove him wrong.

The cabin air is stifling. Thick with pine resin and the scent of him. It’s an aphrodisiac, plain and simple, and I’m this close to climbing him like one of those trees he loves so much.

So yeah. Fresh air. A cleansing.

One way or another, I’m coming whether he likes it or not.

While I don’t have boots, I’ve got a pair of sneakers that are worn in that’ll do the trick.

Not wanting my inner thighs to rub each other, I don’t dare think about wearing shorts. It’s too hot for jeans during prime time, so I’m lucky to find some khakis in my luggage.

And for the sole purpose of making Logan squirm, I pick a dangerous top. A crop top that hints at what’s beneath by fluttering against the skin right beneath my breasts.

He’s clearly not shy looking, hardly showing any signs of being turned off by my curves. Might as well show them off even more to see how far I can get.

While I’m working on tying my hair, I pretend I don’t notice the way his eyes flicker over to me.

“You’re not embarrassed to be seen with me, right?” I lift a brow as I consider the option. I could be what slows him down, I guess.

The words barely leave my lips before his expression darkens— scowling doesn’t even cover it. It’s like I flipped a switch, and boom, grumpy Logan is back in full force. He straightens to his full height, looming over me, all broad shoulders and barely leashed irritation.

Forget if looks could kill . With him? It’s more like if looks could devour you in one bite .

Damn if that thought doesn’t send a thrill straight through me.

This can’t be my imagination.

“Mountain isn’t safe for those who aren’t used to it,” he finally excuses after a second that feels too long.

Tightening my hair, I move past him, purposely brushing his chest along the way. “Guess it’s a good thing I’ll be with you then. If anything happens, you’ll take care of me, won’t you?”

He doesn’t reply to my tease, only following behind me.

If I’m right and Logan is attracted to me in one form or another, then I’m going to shoot my shot.

Not just for a quick wave of fun. Down deep, I want to chase after these strange sensations. The ones that are making my heart flutter in my chest and my body ache.

Whatever he’s doing to me, it’s a first.

I don’t want it to be the last.

“Stick to the trail,” he instructs from behind, “I won’t let us get lost. Take it at your own pace.”

He’s so serious, I want to ease the tension between us. Hoping it’ll unweave itself naturally after we abandon the cabin, I realize his silence isn’t wavering.

Rolling my eyes at the need to take care of it myself, my next step consists of spinning on my foot.

Just my luck, I decided to do it on a patch with a root poking through the dirt.

Logan’s moving like he can see the future, already reaching out before I realize he thinks I’m going to lose my balance.

“Careful.” The word is a hiss between his teeth.

I could laugh. Doesn’t he know? I’ve danced on stages slick with sweat, leapt from platforms in heels, spun until the world blurred—balance is my job. But the protest dies on my tongue when I look up.

His gaze is locked on my mouth as quickly as his fingers lock around my arms to steady my body.

Slowly—I drag the tip of my tongue along my bottom lip. His breath hitches.

I want to kiss him.

Even with all this fresh air, I feel the need to.

“Violet—” He chokes on my name, and he sounds apologetic. At the same time, he doesn’t pull away.

He wants to touch me as much as I want to touch him. I can feel it in my gut.

It’s also why I feel confident that in this moment right now, he’d let me touch him too. So, I do.

My fingers find his jaw, going rogue as they trace the rough stubble there, and his name slips out in a whisper.

“Logan.”

A warning for what is to come. A warning for what I plan to do.

He should stop me. He knows he should. I see it in the way his throat works, the way his fingers flex like he’s debating putting space between us, but he doesn’t.

We’re playing chicken now. A breathless standoff where neither of us blinks.

One of us will pull away first, if we’re smart.

Except—he’s a brick wall. He doesn’t want to be the bad guy by being the first one to crumble.

It’s a good thing I don’t care what anyone thinks about me.

So, before I get cold feet, I lift onto my toes and kiss him.