Page 4 of My Obsessive Mountain Man (Summer in the Pines #3)

Sunlight pours through the windows like honey, turning dust motes to gold as they dance in the air.

The storm has passed, leaving behind that particular mountain clarity—air so clean it almost hurts to breathe it, colors so vivid they seem unreal.

I'm sweeping the porch, a mundane task I've done a thousand times, but today everything is different.

Because Violet is here.

She sits in the old rocking chair, one of her grandmother's journals open in her lap, but she isn't reading.

Her gaze is fixed on the distant mountains, lost in thought.

The kiss we shared in the treasure room hangs between us—not awkward, but weighty with possibility.

Neither of us has mentioned it, but I feel it in every glance, every careful movement as we navigate the cabin's close quarters.

I pause in my sweeping, allowing myself to really look at her.

Sunlight catches in her auburn hair, setting it ablaze with copper and gold.

She's kicked off her shoes, and her bare feet are tucked beneath her, showing painted toenails.

Her body fills the chair perfectly, soft and curved—full breasts rising and falling with each breath, the generous curve of her hip where it meets the chair's arm, thighs pressed together beneath her jeans.

I want to hold onto her. I want to sink my fingers into the give of her flesh, bury my face in the crook of her neck, breathe her in until she's the only air in my lungs.

"You're staring," she says without looking at me, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

"Can't help it," I admit, not bothering to deny it. There's no point in pretenses between us anymore.

She turns then, meeting my gaze directly. The sunlight catches her eyes, turning them to amber. "What are you thinking when you look at me like that?"

The question is bold, direct. I consider softening my answer, but something tells me Violet Carson doesn't want soft half-truths.

"I'm thinking you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in these mountains," I tell her, my voice low and rough with honesty. "And that chair's never held anyone it suited better."

Color rises in her cheeks, but she doesn't look away. "You have a way of saying things that makes it impossible to doubt you."

"That's because I don't say things I don't mean."

She nods slowly, accepting this. Then she closes the journal and stands, stretching in a way that makes her t-shirt ride up, revealing a glimpse of soft, pale skin at her waist. My mouth goes dry.

"I should call the real estate agent," she says, moving toward the door. "See if she can come out tomorrow, now that the roads are clear."

The words hit me by surprise. I knew this was coming—of course I did—but hearing her say it still feels like ice water in my veins. I resume sweeping, my movements more forceful than necessary.

"Roads might still have debris," I say, keeping my tone neutral with effort. "And the creek crossing floods for days after a storm like that."

She pauses in the doorway, watching me with those perceptive eyes. "Paul."

Just my name, but it holds a question. I stop sweeping and face her directly.

"I have a life in Chicago," she says gently. "A job, an apartment, responsibilities. I can't just... stay."

"Can't? Or won't?" The words come out sharper than I intended.

Her eyes narrow slightly. "Is there a difference?"

I set the broom aside and close the distance between us in three long strides. Not touching her, but close enough that I can smell the faint floral scent of her hair, see the individual freckles scattered across her nose.

"Yes," I say simply. "There's all the difference in the world."

She doesn't back away, though I tower over her. That quiet courage, the unwillingness to be intimidated—it's one of the things I admire most about her.

"This was only ever meant to be a quick trip," she says, but there's a note of uncertainty in her voice that wasn't there yesterday. "Appraise the cabin, meet with the real estate agent, sign the papers, go home. That was the plan."

"Plans change."

"Not mine," she insists, but her eyes flick away, and I know she's lying—to me, to herself.

I step back, giving her space. "Come with me."

She hesitates, then follows as I lead her through the cabin to the spare bedroom—the one I've been using as a workspace when I stay over. I open the door, letting her see what I've kept hidden until now.

Inside, bathed in afternoon light, stands a writing desk.

Not just any desk—one I've built with my own hands over the past year, crafted from cherry wood I milled myself, sanded to a silken finish.

It's sized perfectly for her—the height, the drawers, the angle of the surface where she would write or draw.

"I don't understand," she says, moving into the room to run her fingers over the smooth wood.

"It's yours," I tell her simply. "I built it for you."

She turns to me, confusion clear on her face. "But... how did you know I would—"

"Your grandmother told me you always wanted a proper desk for your art. Something that wasn't just for work, but for creating." I step closer, watching her fingers trace the grain of the wood. "There's more."

I open the closest drawer, revealing a set of artist's pencils, arranged by hardness. Another drawer holds watercolor paper, cut to size. A third contains a leather-bound sketchbook, its pages blank and waiting.

"You did all this... for me?" Her voice is barely above a whisper. "Before you even met me?"

"I knew you," I say simply. "Through Martha's stories, through her letters, through the way she loved you. I knew."

Violet shakes her head slowly, backing away from the desk. "This is... a lot, Paul. You have to see that this is intense."

"I know what it looks like," I admit, making no excuses. "But ask yourself this—does it feel wrong? Does it feel threatening? Or does it feel like something you've been waiting for without knowing it?"

She opens her mouth, then closes it again. I can see the conflict in her eyes—the rational part of her that says this is too much, too fast, too intense, battling with something deeper that recognizes the truth.

"Your apartment in Chicago doesn't allow dogs," I say quietly.

"But you've always wanted one. A big one, something sturdy that could hike with you.

You hate the winters there—the slush, the dirty snow.

You miss seeing stars at night. You work eighty-hour weeks appraising other people's treasures, but you haven't picked up a paintbrush for yourself in years. "

Her eyes widen. "How could you possibly—"

"Martha kept every letter, Violet. Every phone call, she made notes afterward—what you said, what you didn't say. She worried about you. Said you were burying yourself alive in that city."

"That's... that's private," she says, but there's no real anger in her voice. Just shock, and something else—relief, maybe, at being seen so completely.

"It is," I agree. "And I would apologize for knowing these things, except I can't be sorry for understanding you. For seeing what you need."

"And what do I need, Paul?" she challenges, taking a step toward me. "Since you seem to have it all figured out."

I meet her gaze steadily. "You need this mountain. This air. This space to breathe and create and be exactly who you are." I pause, my heart hammering against my ribs. "And you need someone who sees you—all of you—and stays anyway."

Her breath catches. "That's... that's crazy. You're—"

"Obsessed?" I supply the word she's too polite to say. "Maybe. Or maybe I just recognize what belongs to me when I see it."

Her eyes flash. "I don't belong to anyone."

"Not yet," I agree, and watch the color rise in her cheeks. "But you belong here, Violet. In this cabin. On this mountain." I step closer, until I can feel the heat radiating from her body. "And you know it. That's what scares you—not me. The fact that this feels right when it shouldn't."

"You don't know what I feel," she says, but her voice has lost its conviction.

"I know you felt it when we kissed," I say, my voice dropping lower. "I know your body recognized mine. I know you've been watching me all day, thinking about it happening again."

She swallows hard, her eyes darting to my mouth before meeting my gaze again. "You're very sure of yourself."

"No," I correct her. "I'm sure of you. Of us. There's a difference."

She shakes her head and turns away, moving quickly back into the main room of the cabin. I follow, giving her space but unwilling to let this conversation end.

"This is insane," she says, pacing the worn floorboards. "We met yesterday. Yesterday, Paul. And you've built me furniture? Stocked art supplies? Read private letters from my grandmother?" She runs a hand through her hair, mussing the copper strands. "In what world is that normal?"

"Nothing about this is normal," I agree, leaning against the doorframe. "But that doesn't make it wrong."

She stops pacing and faces me, her chest rising and falling with quick, agitated breaths. The sunlight streaming through the windows catches her from the side, illuminating the curve of her cheek, the fullness of her lower lip, the soft swell of her breast beneath her sweater.

"I'm leaving tomorrow," she says, but the words sound hollow even to my ears. "This was... a nice interlude. A pleasant surprise. But it's not real life."

Something in me snaps—not in anger, but in fierce determination. I push off from the doorframe and close the distance between us in three long strides.

"This is the most real thing you've ever felt," I say, my voice low and certain. "And you know it."

I don't touch her, though every cell in my body strains toward her. I just stand there, close enough to feel the heat of her, to catch the scent of her skin, to see the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat.

"You're afraid," I continue, softer now. "Not of me. Of how right this feels. Of what it means to want something this much, this fast."

"Stop," she whispers, but she doesn't step away.

"Tell me I'm wrong," I challenge her gently. "Tell me you don't feel this pull between us. Tell me you can walk away tomorrow and forget the way we fit together."

Instead of answering, she reaches up, her fingers hesitating just shy of my face.

Then, with a small sound that might be surrender or might be determination, she lays her palm against my cheek.

Her touch is cool and soft, and I fight the urge to turn my face into it, to kiss her palm, her wrist, to taste the delicate skin there.

"I don't know what this is," she admits, her voice barely audible. "I don't know how to make sense of it."

"Then stop trying," I tell her, covering her hand with mine, holding it against my face. "Some things aren't meant to be analyzed. Just felt."

I see the moment she lets go—something shifting in her eyes, a tension releasing in her shoulders. She steps closer, her body now flush against mine, her face tilted up to hold my gaze.

"This is crazy," she says again, but this time the words hold wonder rather than denial.

"Yes," I agree, sliding my free hand to the small of her back, feeling the warm give of her body through her sweater. "It is."

When she rises on her toes to kiss me, I'm ready. This kiss is different from our first—not discovery but confirmation. Her mouth is soft but insistent against mine, and I respond in kind, letting her set the pace while my body hums with the effort of restraint.

Her arms wind around my neck, pulling me down to her, eliminating the height difference between us. I slide both hands to her waist, fingers spreading to span the softness there, to feel the lush curve where her waist flares to hip.

She makes a small sound against my mouth, and something primal in me answers, deepening the kiss, my tongue sliding against hers in a rhythm that mimics what my body craves.

Her body is pliant against mine, her breasts pressed to my chest, her hips aligned with mine. I can feel every soft curve, every place where she yields. The contrast of her softness against my hardness sends heat spiraling through me.

I walk her backward until she meets the wall, never breaking the kiss. Her fingers tangle in my hair, tugging slightly in a way that makes me growl against her mouth. I press closer, letting her feel what she does to me, what she's been doing since the moment I saw her step out of that car.

"Paul," she gasps when I finally release her mouth to trail kisses down her neck.

"I've thought about this," I murmur against her skin, tasting the salt-sweet flavor of her. "Every night for months. The way you'd feel in my arms. The sounds you'd make."

Her head falls back against the wall, giving me better access to the column of her throat. I take advantage, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the tender skin there, feeling her pulse race beneath my lips.

"Tell me to stop," I say against her collarbone, even as my hands slide lower, cupping the full curves of her ass, pulling her more firmly against me. "If this isn't what you want, tell me now."

Her answer is to arch against me, her body seeking more contact, more pressure. Her hands slip beneath my shirt, her fingers cool against the heated skin of my back, tracing the ridges of old scars without hesitation or disgust.

"I don't want you to stop," she whispers, her voice hitching as I find a sensitive spot just below her ear. "I just want—"

"What?" I ask, pulling back just enough to see her face, flushed and beautiful in the afternoon light. "Tell me what you want, Violet."

Her eyes meet mine, amber and gold in the sunlight, pupils dilated with desire. There's still wonder there, still disbelief, but the wariness is gone.

"You," she says simply. "I want you. Even though it makes no sense. Even though we barely know each other." She takes a shaky breath. "I've never wanted anything the way I want this."

The confession ignites something in me—possessive, primal, protective. I lift her easily, her soft thighs wrapping around my waist as if we've done this a hundred times before. Her weight in my arms feels right, perfect.

"You have me," I tell her, carrying her toward the bedroom—not the spare room with the desk, but the master bedroom where she slept last night. "You've had me since before we met."

She laughs softly against my neck, the sound vibrating through me. "That's still the craziest thing I've ever heard."

"I know," I agree, laying her gently on the bed, following her down until I'm braced above her, drinking in the sight of her spread beneath me, hair fanned out on the quilt, eyes bright with desire and something deeper. "But it's true all the same."