Page 4 of Snug with the Mountain Man (Fall for a Mountain Man #12)

Chapter four

Ford

The first flash of lightning cuts through the trees just after dusk. A second later, thunder rolls off the ridge and shakes the workshop window. I glance up from the workbench at the dark stretch of road that winds toward the Carter cabin.

She’s up there alone.

I tell myself not to worry. Maisie’s fine. She’s always been fine, smart mouth, sharp mind, stubborn streak a mile wide.

Still, when the power in my shop blinks once, twice, then dies, I’m already grabbing my jacket.

Rain comes down in sheets by the time I reach the truck. Wipers slap a steady rhythm against the windshield, useless against the blur. The drive up is all mud and leaves. Trees lean heavily over the narrow road, the headlights carving out just enough space for me to keep moving.

When I finally pull up at her place, the porch light is out. A candle flickers behind the window. My pulse quickens as I think about what I saw through these windows the night before.

I climb the steps and knock once. The door creaks open before I can call her name.

Maisie stands there barefoot, wearing an oversized sweater that hangs off one shoulder, her legs bare and pale against the dark floorboards. Her hair is down, a little messy and wild.

“Power’s out,” she says, voice soft, casual, like she’s not the reason I’m standing here drenched to the skin.

“Yeah. Thought it might be. Lines on this side of the ridge go fast when the wind hits.”

She leans against the frame, studying me. Candlelight dances on her skin, gold against the storm behind me. “You came to check on me?”

“I was in the area.”

Her mouth twitches. “You live ten miles down the mountain, Ford.”

“Still counts.”

She steps aside, opening the door wider. “You might as well come in before you drown.”

Inside, it smells like apples and smoke. The fire burns low, candles scattered across the mantle and table. She’s got a half-empty glass of wine sitting by the sink, and the soft crackle of fire fills the silence between us.

“You good?” I ask.

“Perfect.” She grabs the wine bottle and pours another glass. “You look like you need one of these.”

“I’m fine.”

“You always say that.” She hands me a glass anyway, her fingers brushing mine, and my body reacts before my brain does.

“Maisie—”

“Relax, it’s just a drink. You can stand there and scowl while I sit over here.” She drops onto the couch, tucking her legs under her. The candlelight paints her skin in soft golds and shadows, sweater slipping a little lower down her shoulder.

I take the chair across from her. I need the distance.

“Wasn’t scowling,” I mutter.

She grins over the rim of her glass. “You were. You always do when you’re overthinking.”

“Maybe I just don’t like storms.”

“That’s not it.” She studies me, eyes steady, smile fading into something quieter. “You came because you didn’t want me to be alone.”

I take a long sip of wine. “Storm’s bad. Didn’t want you losing heat.”

Her eyes soften. “That’s sweet.”

“It’s practical.”

“Uh-huh.” She tilts her head, watching me. “You ever get tired of pretending you don’t care?”

“Maisie.”

She lifts a hand, stopping me. “Don’t Maisie me.”

The way she says it, low and teasing, makes heat roll down my spine.

The wind kicks hard outside, rattling the windows. The candle flames dance, their light catching the edge of her hair. She shivers.

“Cold?” I ask.

She shrugs, pulling the sweater tighter. “A little.”

I stand, cross to the wood stove, and throw another log on. Sparks rise, the fire catching fast. I can feel her watching me while I work. When I turn back, her eyes drop quickly, but not fast enough to hide where they’d been.

“What?” I ask.

She smiles, slow and unbothered. “Nothing.”

I can hear the rain pounding on the roof and smell the heat of the fire mixing with her sweet scent.

“You should put on socks,” I say, because it’s the only safe sentence left in my head.

“That’s what you came up with?” she says, laughing softly.

I run a hand through my hair, trying to shake off the tension building in my shoulders. “Just trying to keep you from catching a cold.”

“Sure.” She stands, sets her wine down, and crosses the room toward me. “You’re always trying to save me from something. The porch. The storm. The dangers of bare feet.”

“I’m not saving you.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

I don’t have an answer she’ll believe. The real one, because I can’t stop thinking about you, isn’t something I can say out loud.

She stops close enough that I can feel the heat coming off her skin. Candlelight catches the edge of her smile.

“You really going to stand there and pretend you haven’t been looking at me since you walked in?” she whispers.

“Maisie—”

“Say it,” she says, voice soft and sure. “Tell me you haven’t thought about it. Tell me you don’t want to.”

I don’t move. I don’t breathe.

Lightning flashes outside, followed by a crack of thunder that shakes the floor. She flinches, instinctively pressing into me. My hand lands on her waist, steadying her. Her breath catches.

The world outside is nothing but storm and dark. Inside, everything slows: the rain, the fire, my heartbeat.

Her hand slides up my chest, fingers curling in my shirt. Her eyes search mine, wide and certain.

I could step back. I should. But my thumb drifts over the soft skin at her side, slow, deliberate. She trembles.

“See?” she whispers. “You do want.”

She looks up at me, lips parted.

I stare at her mouth, at the faint shine from the wine she’s just had. My pulse pounds hard enough to feel in my throat.

She rises onto her toes, barely a breath away.

The only thing keeping me from closing that space is a thin thread of control I can feel fraying.

“Maisie,” I say, and it sounds like a warning.

“Ford.” Her voice is quieter. “Stop thinking so hard.”

I drop my hand from her waist before I ruin both of us. “You should get some sleep. I’ll check the line before I head back down.”

She leans back, smiling just enough to let me know she’s not fooled. “Sure, Ford.”

I grab my jacket from the hook by the door. My hands are shaking, just slightly. I pull the door open, and the wind whips rain against my face.

“Lock up,” I tell her. “If it gets worse, call me.”

“You’ll come back?” she asks.

I hesitate. “Yeah. I’ll come back.”

She nods. “Good night.”

I look back at her. She’s smiling, sweet and wicked, sweater slipping lower off one shoulder. I shut the door before I do something I can’t take back.

Outside, the rain is relentless, but all I can think about is the way her breath felt against my skin and the taste of her name sitting like a dare on my tongue.