Page 9 of Restored by the Mountain Man (Eden Ridge: Hunter Brothers #3)

He steps up behind me, his chest nearly brushing my back in the narrow doorway. "What do you mean there's no sofa?"

I gesture to the main living area. There's a small dining table with built-in benches, a compact kitchen, and some storage cabinets. But no sofa. No convertible bed. Just empty floor space where a seating area should be.

"Many RVs have sofas that convert to a bed," Ezra says, his voice tight.

"Well, unless it's invisible, I'm not seeing it." I move further into the space, searching for any hidden furniture. "Maybe it folds out of the wall?"

We both examine the walls, looking for any mechanism that might reveal hidden seating. Nothing.

"There," Ezra says, pointing to a small placard on the wall. "RV recently refurbished. Some furnishings still pending delivery."

"Great," I mutter. "So we have one bed and no alternative sleeping arrangements."

Looking back at the bed through the open door, it suddenly looks both enormous and impossibly intimate.

"I can sleep on the floor," Ezra says, but even as he says it, we both look at the hard, narrow floor space available.

"Stop being ridiculous. You're six-foot-whatever. You'll wake up looking like a pretzel." I take a deep breath, channeling my most professional demeanor. "Like I said, we're both adults. We can share a bed for two nights without it being weird."

Ezra stares at me like I've suggested we run naked through the wheat fields. "Zoe."

"What? It's just sleeping. People sleep next to each other all the time without it meaning anything." I'm talking fast now, trying to convince myself as much as him. "Besides, it's a big bed. Plenty of room for both of us to stay on our respective sides."

He runs a hand through his hair, looking deeply uncomfortable. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Do you have a better suggestion? Because I'm open to alternatives that don't involve one of us sleeping on the floor or driving four hours back to Eden Ridge."

His jaw works silently for a moment. Then he nods curtly. "Fine. But I'm setting up a barrier. Pillows down the middle."

"Whatever makes you comfortable." I grab my bag and head for the bedroom, needing to put some distance between us before I do something stupid like point out that he's being ridiculous. "I'll take the left side."

The bedroom feels even smaller with both our bags in it and suddenly, all I can think about is lying next to Ezra in the dark, listening to him breathe, feeling the warmth of his body just inches away.

Professional , I remind myself. This is professional.

But when Ezra appears in the doorway and I see the way his broad shoulders fill the frame, I know tonight is going to be anything but professional in my dreams.

The farm tour is fascinating and exactly the distraction I need.

Francisco walks us through the grain storage facilities, explains their harvesting process, introduces us to key staff.

His passion for sustainable farming is evident in every word and I’m genuinely excited about the possibility of partnership.

"We've been organic since before it was trendy," he explains as we walk through rows of golden wheat. "My grandfather always said the land has to be respected if you want it to provide."

Ezra asks intelligent questions about yield, weather patterns, and transportation logistics.

While I take notes on quality control processes, testing protocols, and storage conditions.

By the time we head back to the farmhouse for dinner, I'm convinced this partnership could be transformative for the distillery.

Veronica Morales is a force of nature. Barely five feet tall with silver streaked hair and the kind of warm energy that makes you feel like family within minutes.

She's prepared a feast that could feed twenty people: pan-fried pork chops, arroz con gandules which my mother also makes at home, fresh vegetables from their garden, fried tostones with garlic oil, and homemade bread that's still warm from the oven. All that’s missing is my father’s Jamaican roasted sticky sweet potatoes and this would be Thanksgiving at home.

"You're too skinny," she declares, loading my plate for the second time despite my protests. "Both of you. Don't they feed you in Eden Ridge?" Veronica sets the piled up second course in front of me. Then turns to ask Ezra. “More arroz?”

"Ma'am, we eat plenty," Ezra says with the first genuine smile I've seen from him all day. “Arroz?” He asks, his pronunciation endearing.

Smiling, I point out the Spanish flavored yellow rice with pigeon peas.

“Yes,” he grins, watching Veronica add a heapful to his plate. At this rate, we’re both going to knock out from food comas.

"Clearly, you both need to be properly fed. Daily." She turns to me with a conspiratorial whisper that everyone can hear. "This one needs a woman to take care of him. Too much time alone isn’t good for a man."

I nearly choke on my wine. "Oh, we're not... we're just colleagues."

Veronica's knowing look is remarkably similar to the one Mrs. Patterson gave us this morning. "Mmm hmm. Colleagues."

Dinner conversation flows easily. Francisco and Veronica are natural storytellers, sharing tales of farm life, festival disasters, the challenges of keeping a family business thriving across generations.

Ezra relaxes as the evening progresses, even laughing at Francisco's impression of a particularly stubborn bull.

It's the most animated I've seen him. I study his face when he thinks I'm not looking. His eyes crinkle when he really smiles and his whole demeanor softens when he's comfortable.

"The festival starts Wednesday," Veronica says as she serves homemade pineapple upside down cake enhanced with spiced Caribbean rum. "You should come back. Both of you."

Ezra's smile fades almost imperceptibly. "We'll see. Busy time at the distillery."

"All the more reason to take a break," Francisco insists. "Life's not just about work, my friend."

After dinner, we walk back to the RV under a canopy of stars. The night air is cool, carrying the scent of harvest and the distant sound of machinery running late into the evening.

"They're good people," I say as we climb the RV steps.

"The best." Ezra holds the door for me and I'm acutely aware of how his body fills the small doorway, how I have to brush past him to enter.

Inside, the RV feels even smaller than it did this afternoon. The overhead lights cast everything in warm, intimate tones, and suddenly the reality of our situation hits me full force. We're going to share that bed. Sleep next to each other. All night.

"I should get ready for bed," I say, my voice pitched higher than normal. "Long day tomorrow."

Ezra nods but doesn't move. We stand there for a moment, the air between us thick with unspoken tension. Then he clears his throat and steps aside.

"I'll walk you to the house when you need the bathroom," he says matter-of-factly.

Right. The broken plumbing. "Thanks, that's thoughtful."

I grab my toiletry bag and head for the main house, grateful for the few minutes alone to brush my teeth and change into my sleep clothes. I'd packed modest pajama pants and a tank top, but now they feel inadequate. Too revealing. Too intimate for sharing a bed with my boss.

When I return, Ezra takes his turn and I busy myself in the bedroom, trying to create some semblance of a barrier down the middle of the bed with the extra pillows. It looks ridiculous, like a fort built by children but it makes me feel slightly less anxious about the arrangement.

By the time he returns wearing flannel pants and a white t-shirt that clings to his chest, I'm already under the covers on my designated side, the pillow wall between us like a cotton fortress.

"Good night," I say, not trusting myself to look at him as he approaches the bed.

"Night, Zoe."

The bed dips as he settles on his side and I hold my breath, hyperaware of every movement. The pillow barrier suddenly seems ineffective. Flimsy. Just fabric and stuffing separating me from the most attractive man I've ever worked with.

I lie in the darkness, listening to him settling beside me, the sound of his breathing gradually deepening. The RV is quiet except for the distant hum of the refrigerator and the occasional settling noise.

I should be exhausted. It's been a long day and tomorrow promises to be just as busy. But my mind won't settle. Every small sound makes me more aware of his presence just inches away.

Around midnight, nature calls with increasing urgency. I try to ignore it but eventually I have to admit defeat. I slip out of bed as quietly as possible but the movement disturbs the pillow barrier and one tumbles on top of Ezra.

"Zoe?" Ezra's voice is immediate, alert. "Everything okay?"

"Sorry, didn't mean to wake you. I need to use the bathroom."

I hear him sit up, then the sound of bare feet on the floor. "Come on."

We slip out of the RV quietly, not wanting to wake Francisco and Veronica. The farmhouse is dark and Ezra produces a small flashlight to guide our way.

"You don't have to come with me," I protest softly as we approach the house.

"I'm not letting you wander around a strange place alone in the dark," he says matter-of-factly.

We reach the back door and Ezra tries the handle. It doesn't budge.

"Locked," he says, trying again.

"What? But Francisco said we could use it anytime."

"He probably assumed we'd go before bed." Ezra runs a hand through his hair. "We can't knock on their door at midnight."

Panic starts to set in. "So what am I supposed to do?"

Ezra is quiet for a moment. "There's woods behind the RV. It's dark, private."

"Outside?" My voice rises in panic. "I can't pee outside!"

"You can and you will. Unless you want to wait until morning."

That's not an option. "Fine. But you have to stand guard and make sure nothing sees me."

"Nothing's going to see you, Zoe. It's the middle of nowhere."

He leads me away from the RV toward a cluster of trees and bushes. The night air is cold against my bare arms and I wrap them around myself.

"Here," he says, stopping near a cluster of bushes. "This should give you privacy."

"Turn around," I demand.

"I'm already turned around."

"Turn around more."

He sighs but he takes several steps away and faces firmly in the opposite direction. "Better?"

"Don't you dare move," I warn, then reluctantly move behind the bushes.

I'm in the middle of taking care of business when I feel it. Something small and sharp on my backside, like a tiny needle. Then another.

"Ow!" I yelp, jumping up and trying to swat at whatever it is. "Something bit me!"

"What?" Ezra's voice is sharp with concern.

"Something bit my ass!" I'm doing some kind of ridiculous dance, trying to reach the spot while simultaneously trying to pull my pants up. "It burns!"

"Zoe, calm down. What kind of bite?"

"I don't know! It's dark! But it really hurts and it's on my butt and I can't see it!"

I hear his footsteps approaching. "I'm coming over."

"No! Don't come over! I'm not decent!"

"You just said something bit you. I need to see what it was."

"You are not looking at my ass!"

"Zoe." His voice is patient but firm. "If it was a spider bite, or a bee sting, or God forbid a snake?—"

"A snake?!" I screech. "You think a snake bit my ass?!"

"I'm coming over. Pull your pants up."

I struggle to get my pajama pants back in place, my heart hammering with a combination of panic and mortification. "This is so not how I imagined this business trip going."

Ezra appears beside me with the flashlight. "Where exactly did it bite you?"

"My left... cheek." I can barely get the words out. "It really burns."

"I need to see it."

"You need to what now?"

His voice is gentle but serious. "Zoe, if it's venomous, we need to know. And if there's a stinger, it needs to come out."

I stand there in the darkness, weighing my options. Risk of venom versus the humiliation of letting my boss examine my backside.

The burning sensation decides for me.

"Fine," I say through gritted teeth. "But this never happened. We never speak of this again."

"Agreed."

I turn around and with hands shaking from embarrassment, lower my pajama pants just enough to expose the affected area. "Do you see anything?"

Ezra crouches behind me, the flashlight beam illuminating what I'm sure is the most mortifying moment of my life.

"I don't see any obvious bite marks," he says, his voice professional. Clinical. "But there's some redness. Hold still."

I feel his fingers, surprisingly gentle, probing the area around the irritation. His touch is careful, methodical, and completely impersonal. But my body doesn't seem to understand that.

Heat races through me. His hands are warm against my skin and suddenly I'm fully aware of how close he is, how intimate this position is despite the circumstances.

"I think it was just a plant irritation," he says, and I can feel his breath against my skin. "Maybe some kind of nettle or?—"

I bolt upright, yanking my pants back into place. "Great! Thanks! All better! Let's go back!"

"Zoe, wait?—"

But I'm already power walking back toward the RV, my face burning with embarrassment and something else I don't want to analyze. Behind me, I hear Ezra following at a more measured pace.

I practically throw myself into the RV and dive for the bedroom, but stop short when I remember we're sharing the bed. The pillow barrier lies in shambles, half the pillows on the floor from my earlier escape.

A few seconds later, I hear him enter the RV. I'm standing frozen beside the bed, suddenly unable to decide what to do.

"Zoe?" His voice is soft from the doorway. "You okay?"

"Fine!" I call back, my voice pitched too high. "Just... rearranging the pillows."

I hastily rebuild the barrier, my hands shaking slightly. When I finally climb back into bed, Ezra appears in the doorway.

We stare at each other across the pillow wall, and suddenly the absurdity of the situation hits me. Here we are, two professional adults, building a pillow fort to avoid acknowledging the attraction crackling between us.

"Good night," I whisper.

"Good night."

I lie in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, replaying every second of what just happened.

The gentle way he touched me. The concern in his voice.

The fact that he saw my ass — oh my God, he was stooping so he may have seen way more than that — but he somehow made it feel less mortifying than it should have.

And the way my body responded to his touch, even in the midst of my panic.

Tomorrow we have to wake up together, pretend this never happened, and conduct professional business.

I'm in so much trouble.