Page 1 of Restored by the Mountain Man (Eden Ridge: Hunter Brothers #3)

EZRA

“ P romise me, Ezra,” Elizabeth squeezes my hand that lies on her seven-month pregnant belly. “I’m not giving up.” Her voice is fierce.

“But if something happens–,”

I shake my head, anger and fear suffocating me.

“Honey,” she waits for my eyes. “Promise, you will choose to save our little Rosie.”

Her voice echoes. One second, she’s in our bed, in my arms, and the next…blood, everywhere. I’m in the delivery room where it’s too soon for little Rosie to enter the world.

“Get him out of the room!” a doctor yells.

My eyes take in the blood pouring out of my wife’s lifeless body. Arms are pulling me out of the room, but I fight them.

“I told you to save her!” I charge the doctor. “I chose her. You better save her!” Crying, spit flies out of my mouth as I make demands, watching our baby girl being taken out of my wife’s body. Both eerily still.

I’m on my knees, a guttural sob hurting my throat. “I killed them both. I chose her for nothing. I killed them both.”

My body jerks. Reality shifts. My chest heaves broken breaths. Blinking the haunting nightmare away, I focus on the ceiling. I find the hairline crack to the left. Counting breaths, I follow the jagged line across the room, waiting for the numbness that aids my existence to cloak me.

Every morning.

At first, I allowed it to choke me. I sank deep into self-hatred.

The desperate concern in my brothers’ eyes woke me up one day.

They don’t deserve this. Another loss. I decided that day that I’d learn to mask it all.

Enough to appear functional. The truth? Well, that is far from their cautious hope.

I pull my body up, sitting at the edge. Never fails feeling like lifting lead.

Sighing, I finally get to my feet and take care of my morning routine.

In silence, I let the scorching flow from the shower burn.

For as long as my skin can take it. I dress, I set the coffee maker to brew, and I pause, every time, at the locked door.

The third bedroom to the left. Her craft room.

Elizabeth spent months getting it just right with all her creative tools.

The nursery, I took a bat to it the week I killed them.

A year later, Asher came over and cleared it out.

Nash painted it. Today, it sits empty. But Liz’s craft room…

it smells of her. It was a bright and colorful mess.

I couldn’t erase her. So, I locked it and haven’t opened it since.

Staring at the back door, sipping coffee, I go over my list for today, feeling a strange tension and knowing. Potential new hire. One, I feel pressure to help out since she’s my brother’s girl, Laurel’s best friend.

I shake my head. Grayson with a fucking woman.

Committed to one. How the hell does this keep happening?

What the hell is in the air? I love my brothers.

With my whole fucking soul, so, of course, I want to see them happy.

But a small, selfish voice taunts me. Tells me, this is karma, shoving in my face what I could’ve had.

My constant ghosts. Until my time comes.

My new hire, Zoe Diaz. I push thoughts of her aside. Ignoring that her name echoes my thoughts at the most inopportune moments. I drive to the distillery before everyone arrives.

The sun hasn’t crested over the mountains yet.

That quiet as dawn approaches is the closest to peace I know.

Entering Hunter Distillery, the familiar scents of charred oak, sweet mash, and drying grain are thick in the facility.

I check the fermentation tanks and review last night’s logs.

I adjust the flow rates on the stills and check that the condenser is performing optimally, so every drop that falls is smooth, smoky, and carries the Hunter signature.

When our employees begin to filter in and settle into their roles, I walk over to the barrel house.

Hundreds of barrels, quietly aging as they draw flavor from the oak, the weather, and time, feel like a religion.

I inhale deeply, leaning in a hidden corner no one ever finds me in.

Here, I can think. Here, I don’t pretend.

I let my shoulders fall. I entertain the demons.

My phone’s alarm softly chimes. Time to interview Zoe Diaz.

The woman whose brown eyes sparkle with trouble.

Her warm, dark skin looks too soft, too unreal to touch.

All I saw was a few seconds from a laptop screen.

Laurel took down that filthy shit, Andrew Dane, with her girl manning the camera so Grayson could witness the truth.

Remembering how he violated her and my brother has my blood boiling again.

But I brace myself instead. Not sure why.

Intuition just tells me that encountering the full force of Zoe Diaz, face to face, is an experience I’m not prepared for.

I need a neutral setting and not my office. I call Cynthia over the radio and ask to have Gus direct Ms. Diaz to the main room. I’ll be at the still, calibrating.

Their voices softly carry. Her distinct, high-energy city speech is the clearest. But I feel them before I hear them.

Taking a discreet deep breath, I come face to face with her.

Taller than I expected. Professional, in a navy dress that hits a couple of inches above her knee, and a matching blazer.

My eyes briefly trace the curves at her hips, further up, the way the structured dress can’t hide the fullness of her breasts.

I lock my frame imperceptibly.

The fuck.

Guilt, so thick I can taste its acrid coating, hits me. Since when have I noticed, hell, reacted to another woman’s body since… Shit .

The war wages internally, but I’m an expert at appearing unfazed. I’m not just nicknamed Ghost for my talent to disappear physically. I embody the name, down to my soul.

“Good morning, Ms. Diaz.” I keep my hands held behind my back.

“Please,” she smiles, bright and open. “Zoe.”

I nod, then address Gus. “Thank you.”

“Got it, boss.” Gus tips his head to her. “Ms. Diaz.” At her playful expression, he smiles. “Zoe,” he amends.

“Thank you,” she gives a small laugh. It’s musical with a hint of rasp.

“We’ll start with the tour,” I say, immediately stepping around her, heading to the far end of the distillery.

I slow my pace until I feel her follow. The next twenty minutes are mindless professionalism.

I show her each station and location within the facility.

I ignore the hints of excitement that pulse in my gut every time she impresses me.

It’s not just her knowledge of the process and craft, but her passion that, at every turn, aligns with my view of what we create every day.

She’s eager to understand our process, peppering me with intelligent questions and answering mine with equal measure.

The entire time, I play aloof to the occasional brush of her sleeve against my bare forearm.

It’s September, and the weather significantly took a dive a week ago, but in here, the heat from all the equipment has me pushing up the sleeves of my sweater.

We talk about the science of whiskey when my older brother Nash’s distinctive voice pierces the hallway we’re in.

“Ghost,” he calls out. “I need this morning’s distillation numbers.” His voice is so low and borderline abrasive that it gives Zoe a startled jerk.

My body instinctively moves closer, almost barricading her body against my brother’s.

“Oh,” she laughs, placing her hand on her chest. “Apologies. You snuck up on me there.” There’s that charming tone and smile of hers.

Why the hell does seeing her turn that charm toward my brother grate my nerves?

Fucking get a handle on this shit, Hunter.

“Apologies, mam’,” Nash grunts.

“Zoe,” she offers her hand. “Zoe Diaz.”

Nash flicks his gaze my way before quickly shaking her hand, then releasing it. “Right. Laurel’s girl. Welcome. Nash Hunter.”

“Master Distiller. An honor.” Her stance eases, casually holding her portfolio. “Your distillery is stunning. And impressive.”

Nash keeps looking my way, to which I narrow my eyes at whatever he’s thinking.

“Thank you. We take great pride in what our family built,” he responds.

My brother’s only a year older. He’s had some bad luck taint his reputation, but I know he prefers it that way. Gives him the excuse to avoid people. Hence, his subtle body language tells me he’s ready to end this small talk.

“I logged them into my phone. I’ll message them to you before I input them into the system,” I answer his initial question.

Nodding, Nash’s eyes linger a bit too long on her legs. When he notices my death stare, the fucker grins.

“A pleasure, Ms. Diaz. Look forward to seeing what you bring to our small town.”

Is he flirting?

She laughs, her white smile almost blinding before it shifts to something flirtatious. “Not sure if Eden Ridge is ready for me, but too late. You’re all stuck with me now.”

Still grinning, Nash winks before he saunters off. We may co-own this business, but tripping his ass down the stairs is looking damn appealing.

“You okay?” her voice filters back in.

“Pardon?”

Her eyes study me. The jovial city girl fades for a brief moment, and it strikes me like a match. So much so, I force my body not to take a step back. Raw and seen. That’s what I’m feeling.

Then, in an instant, shutters close off her true expression, and that’s when I realize, without a shadow of a doubt: Zoe Diaz is an excellent actress. She gives the world a small piece of who she truly is. There’s a depth being hidden behind the charm.

“My office,” I rasp.

“Right,” she shakes off the brief raw moment and hides back behind that assertive, friendly city girl demeanor.

As we make our way toward the west offices where Nash’s and mine are located, I review her portfolio. Assessment: Zoe Diaz isn’t fond of silence.

"This is a serious setup," she observes, examining a high-end spectrometer we pass on the way.

Keeping my eyes on her last projects in Portland, I reply, "We take quality seriously. Our reputation depends on it."

And as much as I’d like to find some fault, any fault whatsoever with her qualifications, I can’t. She’s the damn best candidate we’ve come across. I’d be an idiot not to hire her.

I open my office door, making room for her to enter. She thanks me with a business-appropriate smile. I catch myself cataloging the four distinct smiles I’ve already witnessed from Zoe Diaz in such a short time.

“Please, have a seat,” I tell her, sitting in my chair, oddly thankful for the barrier of my desk between us.

Holding in my defeated sigh, I open the left drawer, retrieving the hire folder. I lay it in front of her. "The formal job description, compensation package, and benefits information."

Her eyes briefly widen before she quickly adjusts her stunned reaction. Opening to review the contents inside, she asks, "Don't you want time to consider other candidates?"

I’m not one to waste time. I give her honesty. "I've already interviewed three others. None of them understood both the science and the craft the way you do." I pause. A brief moment to decide if this will lead to trouble or not.

If so, that’s my problem. Not hers. "The position is yours if you want it."

"I want it," she says decisively. "When would you like me to start?"

In true Zoe Diaz fashion, I expected nothing less.

"Monday," I answer. "Unless that's too soon?"

"Monday works for me," she confirms. "I'll make it happen."

I nod once, determined to figure out this reaction to her and squash it. Immediately. "Cynthia will help you complete the necessary paperwork before you leave today."

I send a message to Cynthia from my desktop. Efficient as ever, there's a knock at the door before Cynthia peeks in. "If you’re ready, I’ll escort Ms. Diaz to HR.”

I stand, ready to get the fuck out of here so I can shake off her effect on me.

"Welcome to Hunter Distillery, Zoe."

There’s one of the four smiles again. "Thank you for the opportunity." She extends her hand for a formal shake.

Almost to defiantly prove to myself today’s strange behavior has nothing to do with her specifically, I take her much smaller hand in mine.

Of course, it’s the softest skin I’ve ever held.

"I won't disappoint you,” she says confidently, letting go and following Cynthia out.

Who am I kidding? This is a hundred percent about her. In the past thirteen years, I only had eyes for one woman.

I lean against the wall behind my desk, thumping the back of my head a few times.

I close my eyes and whisper, “Liz. I’m so sorry.”