Page 6 of Stone Cold Mountain Man (Cold Mountain Nights #7)

W ade

I push the door open with my hip, holding the casserole steady, and step aside so she can come in.

Taylor slips past me, carrying a breeze of cold air and something faintly sweet—vanilla, maybe.

Or cinnamon. Whatever it is, it doesn’t belong in my cabin, but the place feels warmer the second she’s inside.

She looks around, taking in the log walls and the scarred table tucked under the window. Her eyes pause on the scratches across my cheek.

“You didn’t tell me you got torn up,” she says, brows knitting.

“It’s nothing,” I answer, setting the casserole on the counter.

“Nothing?” She tilts her head. “You sprinted through a forest to rescue me. Those branches didn’t exactly roll out a red carpet.”

I grunt, hoping that’ll be the end of it, but she keeps studying the marks.

“Do you have a first aid kit?” she asks. “Or are you planning to be a true mountain man and rub some dirt in it, call it a day?”

The words catch me off guard. A laugh breaks out—quick, real, the kind I don’t let out often. Her face lights up at the sound, and for a heartbeat I almost forget the sting on my skin.

“I’ve got a kit,” I say, opening the cabinet by the fridge. I pull out a battered metal tin and hand it over.

“Sit,” she orders, pointing to the table.

I raise a brow, but I sit. She pops the latch and starts sorting gauze and antiseptic like she’s done this a hundred times.

Her sweater rides up a little as she leans closer, and I suddenly become hyper-aware of how close she is—of the way her hair brushes her jaw, of the faint scent of soap clinging to her skin. My gaze betrays me, drifting to where her hip is nearly level with my line of sight.

Focus, Wade.

She dabs at a scratch on my cheek with a cotton pad. “You really went charging in there,” she murmurs.

“You screamed,” I say simply.

Her lips twitch, like she doesn’t know whether to smile or apologize. “Still, thank you.”

“Part of living up here,” I tell her, though my voice is rougher than I intend.

She keeps working, gentle but efficient, taping a small bandage across a cut near my jaw. Each brush of her fingers leaves a tiny spark in its wake. I remind myself she’s just patching up a neighbor, not trying to set fire to the air between us.

“All done,” she announces finally, leaning back with a pleased look.

“Appreciate it,” I say, pushing to my feet before I get caught staring somewhere I shouldn’t. “Make yourself at home while I clean up. Won’t take long.”

I head down the hall, ducking into the bathroom. The shower is quick—soap, rinse, out. I pull on a clean shirt and fresh jeans, trying not to think about how fast my heartbeat was the whole time.

When I come back, she’s standing by the shelf near the fireplace, studying the wooden figurines lined up there. Small bears, a fox, a curled-up lynx. Pieces I carve on long winter nights when the silence gets too heavy.

She bends to look closer at the one I’ve been working on—a tiny succulent with carved leaves, still rough around the edges.

Before she can pick it up, I cross the room and cover it with a folded cloth.

Her eyes flick up, curious.

“Work in progress,” I say, a little too fast.

“Fair enough.” A smile tugs at her mouth, but she doesn’t push.

I clear my throat, suddenly aware of how close we’re standing. “You ready to eat?”

She nods, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. The simple gesture does something to my ribs I don’t want to examine.

I gesture toward the table, now smelling like baked cheese and barbecue sauce. “Grab a seat. I’ll get plates.”

As I set the dishes out, I catch her glancing at the covered carving again, then back at me. There’s a question in her eyes, one I’m not ready to answer—not yet.

For now, there’s dinner, and the quiet thrum of something building between us that I can’t name, but can’t quite ignore either.