Page 4 of Restored by the Mountain Man (Eden Ridge: Hunter Brothers #3)

ZOE

M y heels click against the polished concrete as I follow Ezra through the distillery, trying to keep up with his long strides.

Workers glance our way as we pass, their expressions curious but respectful.

They clearly know better than to question their boss when he's moving with this kind of focused intensity.

The whiskey-soaked fabric of my dress clings uncomfortably to my skin, the amber liquid creating sticky patches that make me hyperaware of every step.

But it's Ezra's behavior that has me truly unsettled.

This isn't the controlled, professional man I met during my interview.

This is someone else entirely. Someone who looks like he's seen too much, lost too much, and can't bear the thought of losing anything else.

"Ezra," I try again as we reach his office. "I'm really fine. It's just a little spill."

But he's already moving toward a closet, his large frame cutting through the space with purpose.

"You don't understand," he says, his voice rough and strained.

He pulls out a red flannel button down, holding it out to me like it's a lifeline.

"You're soaked in alcohol. You're a walking fire hazard," he repeats.

I take the flannel, noting how it dwarfs my hands. It's going to be massive on me, but I suppose that's better than walking around in whiskey-soaked clothes. "A fire hazard? Ezra, I'm not planning on lighting any matches. Besides, you have whiskey on you too."

My words clearly don’t register as his eyes meet mine.

Something in expression looks dangerously close to panic.

"You don't know what could happen. Static electricity, a spark from equipment, someone's cigarette.

" His hands hover near my shoulders as if he wants to touch me but doesn't dare.

"Please. Just get that alcohol off your skin. "

The concern in his voice is so raw, so genuine, that it stops my protest cold. This man is clearly fighting demons I can't see, and for whatever reason, my whiskey-soaked state is triggering something in him that goes far beyond normal workplace safety concerns.

"Okay," I say softly, trying to inject calm into my voice. "What do you want me to do?"

Relief floods his features but the tension doesn't leave his shoulders. He nods toward a door in the corner of his office. "The bathroom's through there. I have a shower in the en-suite. There are towels, soap, whatever you need. Just... please get that alcohol off your skin."

There's something almost desperate in his request and I find myself nodding before I fully process what I'm agreeing to. This is definitely not how I imagined my first day would go but something about Ezra's distress makes me want to help, to ease whatever pain is driving this behavior.

"Alright. I'll be quick."

I head toward the bathroom, pausing at the threshold to look back at him. He's standing rigid by his desk, hands clenched at his sides, staring at nothing. Whatever battle he's fighting right now, it's entirely internal, and he's losing.

The bathroom is surprisingly luxurious for a distillery office, with clean white tiles and modern fixtures. I set the flannel button down on the counter and lock the door behind me then lean against it for a moment, trying to process what just happened.

My hands shake slightly as I reach for my phone. I need to talk to someone who will understand how completely insane this situation is. I need Laurel.

I dial her number and wait, tapping my foot impatiently as it rings.

"Hey, Zo! How's the first day going?" Laurel's cheerful voice fills the small bathroom.

"Laurel," I whisper, keeping my voice low. "I need you to listen to me very carefully and not freak out."

There's a pause. "Okay, now I'm definitely going to freak out. What happened?"

"My boss got me naked on my first day of work."

The silence that follows is so thick, I think the call might have dropped. Then Laurel explodes.

"He WHAT? Zoe, I swear to God, if that man laid a hand on you, I will drive up there right now and castrate him with a rusty spoon. Grayson may be his brother but he’ll learn to forgive me. His other brothers can help hide the body."

"No, no, no," I rush to explain, fighting back a hysterical laugh. "It's not like that. It's... God, I don't even know how to explain this."

I quickly fill her in on the whiskey incident and Ezra's reaction, how he seemed genuinely panicked about me being soaked in alcohol, insisting I wash it off immediately, like my life depended on it.

"So you're telling me," Laurel says slowly, "that your brooding, mysterious boss demanded you shower in his private bathroom because he was worried about you being flammable?"

"That's exactly what I'm telling you."

"Huh." There's a thoughtful pause. "You know, that's actually kind of sweet in a completely neurotic way."

"Sweet? Laurel, I'm about to be naked in my boss's bathroom!"

"Speaking of which," she says, and I can hear the grin in her voice, "remember that time you were on the phone with me when Grayson announced he was about to thoroughly fuck me?"

"Oh my God, don't remind me," I groan. "I had to bleach my brain after that conversation."

"Well, now we're even. Except you're the one naked in a bathroom this time."

"This is completely different!"

"Is it though?" Laurel's voice turns serious. "Zoe, from what Grayson has told me about Ezra, he's been through hell. Losing his wife and child like that... it probably left him with some serious trauma. Maybe seeing you covered in alcohol triggered something."

I start peeling off my whiskey-soaked dress. "I know. I could see it in his eyes. He wasn't seeing me, you know? He was seeing something else. Something that scared him."

"PTSD can manifest in all sorts of ways," Laurel says gently. "The fact that you recognized he was having an episode and went along with what he needed... that shows incredible compassion, Zo."

"I just didn't want to make it worse. And honestly?" I take a shaky breath, dropping the ruined dress into the sink. "Sometimes I have episodes, too. After Tom died, certain smells or sounds would send me spiraling. I know what it's like to feel like you're drowning in your own mind."

"That's why you're perfect for each other," Laurel says softly.

"Laurel, he's my boss. This is my first day. I can't be having thoughts about how perfect we are for each other."

"Thoughts happen whether we want them to or not. The question is what you're going to do about them."

I stare at his shirt on the counter, imagining how it's going to smell like him when I put it on. "Right now, I'm going to shower and try to salvage what's left of my professional reputation."

"Good plan. But Zoe? Be gentle with him. And with yourself. Sometimes the best things come from the most unexpected moments."

After we hang up, I strip off the rest of my clothes and step into the shower. The hot water feels incredible against my whiskey-sticky skin, washing away the alcohol and some of the tension from this bizarre morning.

I use his soap, noting how it smells like cedar and something clean and masculine. It's the kind of scent that makes you want to bury your face in someone's neck and breathe them in. Not that I'm thinking about burying my face in Ezra's neck. Absolutely not.

When I'm clean, I button up the flannel and it immediately swallows me, the hem hitting mid-thigh and one shoulder hangs off.

I catch sight of myself in the mirror. Oh, hell no. This won’t do.

Looking around for anything that could save this monstrosity, I spot it. A thick leather belt hangs from a hook at the back of the door. Forming a plan, I grab the belt and tie it around my waist, then untuck the fabric to make it more form-fitting.

Yes, this is it.

I look like a woman wearing her lover's shirt after spending the night in his bed.

I shake my head, banishing that thought immediately. This is a professional situation. My boss was concerned about safety and provided me with clean clothes. That's all.

I gather my whiskey-soaked dress and step out of the bathroom, expecting to find Ezra waiting with instructions or perhaps an apology for his strange behavior.

Instead, the office is empty.

"Mr. Hunter?" I call out, but there's no response.

The door to the office opens and a woman with short blonde hair and kind eyes peeks in. She must be Cynthia, the receptionist I met briefly when I arrived.

"Oh good, you're decent," she says with a smile. "Ezra had to run out but he left instructions for your afternoon."

She hands me a folder filled with documents and a sticky note covered in Ezra's precise handwriting.

"He wants you to review the quality control protocols for the new bourbon blend, check the batch records from last week for any anomalies, and familiarize yourself with our FDA compliance documentation. There's also another tasting scheduled for three o'clock with the production team."

I nod, trying to appear professional despite the fact that I'm wearing my boss's t-shirt and my hair is still damp from showering in his bathroom. "Thank you. Did he say when he'd be back?"

Cynthia shrugs. "Ezra comes and goes as he pleases. Don't take it personally. He's been like a ghost around here for years."

After she leaves, I settle at the small conference table in his office and spread out the documents. The work is fascinating, exactly the kind of detailed analysis I love. Quality control in distilling is both art and science, requiring a palate for nuance and an eye for data patterns.

But as I read through batch records and compliance reports, my mind keeps drifting to the look on Ezra's face when he saw me covered in whiskey. The way his eyes went wide with something that looked like terror. The desperate edge to his voice when he insisted I wash it off.

What had he seen in that moment? What memory had I triggered?