Page 3 of Pucked Mountain Man (Cold Mountain Nights #6)

THREE

STEVIE

By the time we leave the gym, the seems to have given up. The sky has gone from a hazy gray to dark slate.

Snow and ice pelt the windows as the wind makes the cabin shake.

“Generator first,” I say, tugging on my boots.

Grady is in his customary sweatshirt with the hood up. He eyes my scarf skeptically.

“Are you headed into battle or what?”

“It’s called layering,” I say, winding it around my neck. “Unlike machismo, it keeps you warm.”

He almost smiles. Almost. “I’m not being a macho guy.”

“Mm-hm.” I grab the flashlight.

Outside, the generator sits under its awning. I pop open the panel, check the lines, flip the switch. It purrs to life.

“We are officially not freezing to death if we lose the power.”

“That’s a high bar for survival,” he says, but I catch the relief in his eyes.

We haul in wood making a couple of trips. When I catch him eyeing the heaviest log, I step in.

“Don’t.”

“I can?—”

“Don’t,” I repeat, in a soft but firm tone. My hand brushes his sleeve.

He gives in, but I don’t miss the hard set of his jaw.

Inside, I stack the wood, check the water, lanterns, blankets. The wind elbows the siding. Lights flicker, think better of it.

“Okay,” I say. “Now the hard part.”

He lifts a brow. “What’s that?”

“Keeping a recovering hockey player from doing something that will flare up his injury. Lucky for us—” I tip my head down the hall “—we have plenty of entertainment.”

The game room is a neon-washed time capsule from the 1980s. There’s a pool table, pinball, and most importantly, an air hockey table. I hand Grady a striker.

He eyes it suspiciously.

I snort. “What? Are you scared you might lose?”

He scoffs. “I could beat you with my eyes closed.”

“You’re on. Stakes?”

“Name them.”

I cock my head to the side and eye him closely. “How about the loser makes dinner.”

“And the winner?”

“Winner picks tonight’s movie.”

He lets out a low whistle. “High stakes. You’re on.”

We flip on the game and it hums to life. The puck sits on the table between us.

From his position on the other side, Grady purses his lips. He looks lighter, younger somehow, with his eyes focused on the plastic disc.

“Ready?” I ask.

“Drop the puck.”

I do. He blocks, counters, scores.

His lips curve up. “One-nothing.”

“Beginner’s luck,” I say.

I grew up battling Thatcher on a thrift-store table. Losing is not in my DNA.

We trade goals like insults. He grins when I sneak one under his striker.

“One-one.”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“I am the picture of humility,” I say batting my eyes sweetly.

He laughs—a real one this time—and my heart thuds.

For a few minutes we stop being patient and caretaker and just play . Swearing, trash-talking, sweating over a stupid plastic puck.

But then we hit three-three. There are only seconds left on the clock.

We both lean in. I hit the puck once more. Grady blocks it. The puck glides back across the table and stops near the center line.

The clock hits zero.

“A draw,” I say, breathless.

He huffs a laugh. “Care for a rematch?”

“Maybe,” I say, pulse hammering, “we need different stakes.”

“Such as?”

“Winner gets a kiss.”

Silence. His eyes flash. No joke. No your brother. Just watching me like I’m the only puck on the ice.

“Best of one,” he says, voice rough.

We count—one, two, three—and both stay still. The puck doesn’t move. Neither do we.

It’s unnecessary. No matter who scores the point, we’ll both end up winners.

We circle the table, meeting in the middle.

“Stevie,” he all but growls my name.

“Grady,” I whisper back.

His gaze drops to my mouth. My breath stops. He leans toward me, his hand cradling the back of my neck. His thumb brushes the sensitive skin below my ear.

He pauses, giving me time to move away. I don’t.

I rest my hand on his chest and lean up on my toes.

The first touch of my lips against his is soft and light. Barely a brush. Almost like a sample to acclimate our palettes. But it’s enough to set my heart fluttering.

The second. The second…

Our mouths crash. Our lips moving together, his strong and pressing. Mine soft and pliable.

Heat shoots through me, sending my heart into a full-fledged frenzy.

My hand fists in his hoodie as I tug him closer, opening my mouth to his. Allowing his tongue to meet mine. Turning myself over completely to him.

His grip on my waist holds me steady. He kisses me like he’s never tasted anything better. I kiss him back knowing I never have.

Heat tingles under my skin. His low groan echoes in my chest, stirring the need already churning inside me.

He pulls back slightly so we can catch our breaths, “Rockstar. You’re gonna be the end of me.”

“Maybe I’ll be the beginning,” I whisper.

Something seems to snap inside of him.

He pulls me back, kissing me with even more intensity. Somehow hungrier. He presses against me until my hip bumps the table.

“Sorry,” he mumbles into my mouth.

I shake my head and pull him even closer. Unable to get close enough for my liking.

When we finally come up for a real breath, the storm within us rages even louder than the one outside.

My phone beeps with Thatcher’s signature ringtone. It brings me back to reality. “I don’t want to be your secret fling to tide over the boredom.”

“I know,” he admits, raw. “I don’t want you to be either. I just don’t know how to do this without breaking something—Thatcher, the team, you.”

“You won’t break me,” I say.

His mouth tilts, pained. “Broken people break people.”

“You’re not broken.”

He just swallows hard and kisses the corner of my mouth, quick, like a promise. “Come on, Rockstar. I’ll make dinner. You pick the movie.”

“I thought we tied.”

“New stakes, remember. We both won.”

He releases me, and I watch him limp out of the room. I press my fingers to lips still tingling.

Outside, the storm erases the real world. Inside, I feel like I’m living in a fantasy.