Page 5 of Restored by the Mountain Man (Eden Ridge: Hunter Brothers #3)

I lose myself in fermentation reports and temperature logs, finding comfort in the familiar rhythm of data analysis. The numbers tell a story of careful craftsmanship and attention to detail. Every batch is tracked meticulously, every variable monitored and recorded.

It's the kind of precision I respect, the kind of dedication that speaks to a deeper commitment to excellence. Despite whatever personal demons Ezra may be fighting, his professional standards are impeccable.

I'm deep in a particularly complex aging analysis when I sense movement in the doorway.

I look up to find Ezra standing there, his broad frame filling the entrance.

He's changed clothes, I notice, trading his whiskey-splattered shirt for a clean button-down in deep blue that makes his eyes look like storm clouds.

Our gazes lock for a moment and something flickers across his face. Relief, maybe? Or regret? His eyes drop briefly to take in his t-shirt on my body, the way I've styled it to actually look intentional.

He looks away, his jaw tightening. "How are the reports?"

"Interesting," I reply, matching his professional tone. "Your fermentation consistency is impressive. The pH levels have stayed remarkably stable across the last six months of production."

He nods, still not quite meeting my eyes. "Nash has perfected the process over the years with trial and error."

"And your quality metrics are well above industry standards. The reject rate on finished product is less than half a percent."

"We don't compromise on quality." His voice carries pride but there's still tension in his shoulders.

I want to ask him if he's okay. I want to acknowledge what happened earlier, to let him know I understand that sometimes our minds take us to dark places, and we need someone to help pull us back. But something in his posture warns me off.

Instead, I hold up one of the reports. "I did notice some inconsistencies in the aging room temperature logs from last Tuesday. Nothing concerning, but worth investigating."

This draws his attention, and for the first time since he returned, he looks directly at me. "What kind of inconsistencies?"

"Temperature spikes, about three degrees above optimal, lasting roughly an hour each time. Could be a sensor malfunction or maybe an issue with the climate control system."

He moves closer to examine the report I'm holding and suddenly he's right there, leaning over my shoulder to read the data. His proximity hits me like a gut punch. I can smell his cologne mixed with the clean scent of his soap, can feel the heat radiating from his body.

"Here," I say, pointing to the anomalous readings, trying to keep my voice steady. "And here. You can see the pattern."

His finger brushes mine as he traces the data points and I feel that simple contact like an electric shock. We both freeze, the air between us suddenly charged with something I shouldn't be feeling for my boss on my first day of work.

"I'll have maintenance check the system," he says, his voice rougher than before. He straightens abruptly, putting distance between us.

"Good. Temperature variations during aging can significantly impact the final flavor profile."

We lapse into silence. I still want to ask him about earlier. I want to understand what triggered his panic. But more than that, I want to know why wearing his t-shirt feels more intimate than any evening gown I've ever worn.

"Ms. Diaz," he begins, then stops, running a hand through his dark hair. "Earlier, when I... I apologize if my behavior seemed unprofessional."

"You don't need to apologize," I say quickly. "You were concerned about safety. That's admirable."

"Was I?" His smile is bitter, self-deprecating. "Or was I just another damaged person projecting my own trauma onto an innocent situation?"

The honesty in his question catches me off guard. "We all have things that trigger us," I say carefully. "Sometimes our past experiences color how we see present situations. That doesn't make us damaged. It makes us human."

He studies my face as if searching for judgment. "You're very understanding for someone who was forced to shower in her boss's bathroom on her first day."

"I've had worse first days," I tell him, thinking of the job where my supervisor spent the entire orientation hitting on me or the one where I discovered they'd been falsifying safety reports.

"Have you?" There's curiosity in his voice now and something that might be the beginning of a smile.

"Trust me, naked in your bathroom barely cracks the top five weirdest work situations I've encountered."

This does earn me a smile. "Somehow that doesn't make me feel better about my behavior."

"It should. Because it tells you that I'm not some delicate flower who's going to run screaming from a little professional awkwardness."

We look at each other for a long moment until Ezra glances at his watch. "The tasting is in twenty minutes," he says finally. "Are you ready to meet with production?"

I gather the reports and stand, acutely aware of how his t-shirt shifts against my skin. "Ready."

As we walk toward the door, he pauses, his hand on the handle. "Ms. Diaz?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you. For understanding. For not making it weird."

"Zoe," I correct gently. "And you're welcome."

He nods, something easing in his expression. "Zoe."

The way he says my name, soft and careful, like he's testing how it feels on his tongue, sends warmth spiraling through my chest.

We head toward the tasting room together and I can't shake the feeling that something fundamental has changed between us. Maybe it was the vulnerability he showed when he thought I was in danger. Maybe it was the trust he showed by letting me see him rattled.

Or maybe it was the simple act of putting on his clothes and feeling for just a moment, like I belonged to someone again.

As we enter the tasting room where the production team is waiting, I catch Ezra glancing at me sideways, his gaze lingering on the way his shirt fits my body. When he realizes I've noticed, he looks away quickly, a flush creeping up his neck.

Professional, I remind myself. This is professional.

I settle into my chair and prepare to analyze the whiskey samples before us, ignoring the way my skin still tingles where his finger touched mine, or the way his scent clings to the fabric of his shirt.

Some lines, once crossed, can never be uncrossed.

And something tells me that today, whether we meant to or not, we crossed one.