Page 13 of Restored by the Mountain Man (Eden Ridge: Hunter Brothers #3)

"Francisco thinks they sent you to me," he says quietly. "Elizabeth and Rosie. To help me heal."

The admission hangs in the air. I'm not sure either of us is ready to face the implications of that statement.

"What do you think?" I ask carefully.

He's quiet for so long I wonder if he's going to answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.

"I think I'm tired of feeling guilty for wanting to be happy again."

My breath catches. Before I can respond, my phone buzzes with a text. I glance down to see Laurel's name on the screen.

"Laurel wants us to stop by the distillery before I head home," I tell Ezra, reading the message. "She says it's important."

Ezra's brow furrows. "That's odd. She knows we're not due back until later today."

"Should we go?"

"Of course. If Laurel says it's important, it's important."

The closer we get to Eden Ridge, the more anxious I become. Laurel's text was uncharacteristically brief with none of her usual emojis or casual tone. Something is definitely wrong.

We pull into the distillery parking lot to find Grayson's truck already there, which only adds to my growing unease. Through the windows, I see both Laurel and Grayson inside and Grayson looks furious.

"This can't be good," Ezra mutters, echoing my thoughts.

We walk into the distillery together, and Laurel immediately rushes toward me with guilt written all over her face.

"Zoe, I'm so sorry. I didn't know what else to do."

"What's wrong?" I ask, dread pooling in my stomach.

Grayson steps forward, his expression grim. "Tom's parents are in town. They showed up at Laurel's old cabin this morning looking for you."

The words steal all the breath from my lungs. Tom's parents. Here. Now. Just when I was starting to feel like I could breathe again.

"What?" I whisper, my voice barely audible.

"They said they tried calling but your phone went straight to voicemail," Laurel explains, wringing her hands. "They were so upset, crying about the anniversary next week. I didn't know how to turn them away, so I told them they could wait at your cabin."

My vision starts to blur around the edges. The room feels like it's tilting, and I reach out blindly for something to steady myself.

Strong hands catch my shoulders and suddenly Ezra's face is in front of mine, his eyes focused and calm.

"Breathe, Zoe," he says softly, his voice cutting through the panic. "Look at me and breathe."

I try to follow his instructions but my chest is tight, like there's a band around my ribs preventing me from getting enough air.

"Where are you right now?" Ezra asks, using the same grounding technique I used on him a few days ago.

"The distillery," I manage to gasp.

"Good. What day is it?"

"Monday."

"What's my name?"

"Ezra." His name grounds me more than anything else and I feel my breathing start to slow.

"That's it," he murmurs, his thumbs stroking reassuring circles on my shoulders. "You're safe here. You don't have to see them until you're ready."

"I can't," I whisper, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I can't face them right now. They'll want to plan memorial services and look through his things and talk about him for hours like he just died yesterday instead of a year ago."

"Then you don't," Ezra says firmly. "You don't have to do anything you're not ready for."

Laurel steps closer, her face stricken with remorse. "Zoe, I'm so sorry. I should have told them you weren't available. I just panicked when they started crying."

"It's okay," I tell her, though my voice is shaky. "You were trying to be kind."

"Where will you go?" Grayson asks practically. "They're at your cabin."

Before I can answer, Ezra speaks up. "She'll stay with me."

The offer surprises everyone including me. This weekend we shared a bed out of necessity. Tonight, he's offering his home as sanctuary.

"Ezra, you don't have to—" I start.

"Yes, I do," he interrupts, his voice leaving no room for argument. "You helped me through my demons last night. Let me return the favor."

I search his face, looking for any sign that this is just politeness or obligation. Instead, I see determination and something deeper. Something that looks like protectiveness and care.

"Okay," I whisper, the word barely audible. But it's enough. Ezra's expression softens, and he nods.

As we head toward the door, I catch Laurel's concerned look.

"Are you sure about this?" she asks quietly.

I glance at Ezra, who's already moving to open the truck door for me and something settles in my chest. For the first time since Laurel's text arrived, I feel like I can breathe properly.

"I'm sure," I tell her.

Because whatever is building between Ezra and me, I trust him to keep me safe. Not just from Tom's well-meaning but overwhelming parents, but from the parts of my grief that still threaten to drown me.

And maybe, just maybe, I can do the same for him.

Ezra's house is exactly what I expected. Clean lines, minimal decoration, everything in its place. It's the home of a man who values order and control but there's warmth here too. Family photos on the mantle, a well-worn leather chair by the fireplace, books scattered on the coffee table.

"Make yourself at home," he says. "Guest room is upstairs, second door on the right."

I follow him up the stairs, noting the confident way he moves through his space. Everything about him radiates competence and safety.

The guest room is simple but comfortable. Clean white linens, a reading chair by the window, a view of the mountains in the distance.

"Thank you," I tell him as he sets my bag on the dresser. "This means more than you know."

"You don't have to thank me." He turns to face me and suddenly the room feels more intimate. "I know what it's like to feel trapped by other people's expectations of your grief."

The understanding in his voice makes my chest tighten. "How do you do it? How do you move forward when everyone wants you to stay frozen in that moment?"

"I'm still figuring that out," he admits. "But last night helped. Talking to you helped."

We stand there looking at each other, thoughts of my fantasy this morning returning to my mind.

"I should let you get settled," he says finally, though he makes no move toward the door.

"Ezra?"

"Yeah?"

"Would you... would you mind if we cooked dinner together? I don't really want to be alone with my thoughts right now."

His smile is soft and genuine. "I'd like that."

Two hours later, we're in his kitchen working side by side to prepare what has turned into an elaborate meal. Somehow, my simple request for company has evolved into homemade pasta with marinara sauce, garlic bread, and a salad with vegetables from his garden.

"You grow your own tomatoes?" I ask, slicing the red fruit for the salad.

"My mom's recipe for the sauce," he explains, stirring the pot. "She always said store-bought tomatoes didn't have enough soul."

The domestic intimacy of cooking together feels natural, like we've done this a hundred times before. Ezra moves around his kitchen with easy confidence and I find myself stealing glances at him when I think he's not looking.

A small smile plays at his lips when he catches me watching him.

"Wine?" he asks, pulling a bottle from a cabinet.

"Please."

He pours two glasses of red wine and we touch them together in a silent toast. The wine is rich and smooth, warming me from the inside out.

"To unexpected partnerships," Ezra says quietly.

"To new beginnings," I counter.

We drink, our eyes locked over the rim of our glasses. The kitchen fills with the scent of garlic and herbs, creating an atmosphere of warmth and intimacy that makes me forget everything outside these walls.

By the time we sit down to eat, the sun is setting outside his dining room windows, casting everything in golden light. Ezra has set the table with actual cloth napkins and candles, turning our simple dinner into something that feels dangerously close to a date.

"This is incredible," I tell him after the first bite of pasta. "Your mother's sauce recipe?"

"With a few modifications of my own," he admits. "I've had a lot of time to perfect it."

The conversation flows as easily as the wine. We talk about the farm, the new partnership, our plans for expanding the distillery's reach. But underneath the professional topics, there's an undercurrent of awareness that makes every accidental touch of our hands feel electric.

When Ezra gets up to clear the plates, I stand to help, and suddenly we're both reaching for the same dish. Our hands collide and instead of pulling away, we both freeze.

"Zoe," he says, my name barely more than a whisper.

I look up to find his face inches from mine, his eyes dark with something that makes my heart race. The memory of our kiss last night, my private session this morning, combined with the wine and the intimate atmosphere, has created a tension that feels ready to snap.

"I know this is complicated," I whisper back.

"Very complicated," he agrees but doesn't move away.

"You're my boss."

"I am."

"We're both still healing."

"We are."

"But I can't stop thinking about you," I admit, the words spilling out before I can stop them.

His breath hitches. "Zoe..."

"I know it's crazy. I know all the reasons why this is a bad idea. But when I'm with you, I feel alive in a way I haven't since before Tom died. And last night, when you kissed me, it ignited something in me."

For a moment, he just stares at me, his expression unreadable. Then his hand comes up to cup my cheek, his thumb brushing across my bottom lip.

"You have no idea how much I want you," he says, his voice rough. "How hard it's been to keep my hands to myself."

I pull in a breath. "Then don't."

That's all the permission he needs. His mouth crashes down on mine and this kiss is nothing like the tender exploration from last night. This is hunger, and need, and suppressed desire finally given free rein.

I melt against him, my hands fisting in his shirt as I kiss him back with equal desperation.

His hands slide down to my waist, pulling me flush against his body, and I can feel the evidence of his dick pressing against my stomach.

The sensation sends heat racing through my veins, pooling low in my belly.

"Upstairs," I gasp against his mouth.

But instead of leading me to the bedroom, he lifts me onto the dining room table, stepping between my thighs and kissing me again. His hands roam my body with reverent touches, like he's memorizing every curve.

"Are you sure about this?" he asks, his forehead pressed against mine.

"I've never been more sure of anything," I tell him honestly.

His hands find the hem of my sweater and slowly, carefully, he begins to lift it over my head. The cool air hits my heated skin but his gaze burns hotter than any fire.

“So fucking sexy," he murmurs, echoing the words from my fantasy this morning.

His mouth finds my neck, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin while his hands explore the newly exposed territory. When his lips trail down to the edge of my bra, I arch into him with a soft moan.

He traces the lace edge of my bra with his fingers. His restraint peeling back with every careful touch. His hands slide around to my back, fingers finding the clasp of my bra.

"I’ve dreamed of this," he whispers, leaning in to capture my earlobe between his lips, making me moan.

"Me too,” I whisper.

The bra falls away and suddenly his hands are on my bare breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples in exactly the way I fantasized about this morning. The sensation is even better than my imagination, sending sparks of pleasure straight to my core.

"Perfect," he murmurs, replacing his hands with his mouth.

When he takes one nipple between his lips, sucking gently, I cry out and arch against him. My hands tangle in his hair, holding him to me as he lavishes attention on first one breast, then the other.

"Fuck," I gasp, my body already trembling with need.

His hands slide down to the button of my jeans, hovering right above it before looking up to meet my eyes. "Is this okay?"

Instead of answering with words, I capture his mouth with mine, kissing him deeply as his fingers work to open my jeans. He slides them down my legs along with my panties, leaving me bare on his dining room table.

His hands trace up my thighs and when his fingers finally slide across my aching pussy, I nearly come apart at the first contact.

"So wet," he murmurs against my ear. "Is this for me?"

"Yes," I breathe, my hips moving against his hand. "All for you."

He explores me with patient thoroughness, learning what makes me gasp, what makes me moan. When he slides two fingers inside me, I grip his shoulders, my nails digging into his shirt.

"Look at me," he commands softly.

I open my eyes to find him watching my face intently, drinking in every expression of pleasure. The intimacy of it, the way he's completely focused on my responses, makes everything more intense.

His thumb finds my clit as his fingers move inside me and I feel the familiar tightening low in my belly. But this is different from my solo fantasy this morning. This is real, and Ezra is even better than my imagination.

"I'm close," I warn him, my voice breaking.

"Let go," he murmurs, increasing the pressure just slightly. "Let me watch you come apart for me."