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

T aylor

Dinner with Wade isn’t at all how I imagined it.

It’s quieter, sure, but not in an awkward way. He listens while I talk, steady and calm, like every word I say is worth the space it takes up.

I tell him about moving from the city, about how Cedar Ridge Cabin was supposed to be a reset button.

How I wanted to build something that was just mine, even if I had no idea what I was doing when I signed the papers.

He doesn’t interrupt, just nods now and then, eyes on me instead of the clock or his plate.

“And then,” I say, laughing, “The realtor swore the place was ‘turn-key.’ Apparently, that meant ‘turn the key and hope the door doesn’t fall off its hinges.’”

A smile ghosts across his face — quick, almost shy, but there.

I finish my story and glance down, suddenly aware of how quiet the cabin has gotten. Wade is looking at his empty plate, then at mine.

“You’re not hungry?” he asks.

I blink at the untouched casserole on my plate and chuckle. “Guess I’ve been too busy running my mouth.” Heat crawls up my neck. “Sorry.”

His gaze holds steady, warm in a way I haven’t seen before. “Don’t apologize for talking.” He leans back in his chair. “Not to me.”

Something in my chest loosens at that. Maybe I’m not too much after all. Maybe I’m just right if they are the right person.

He pushes back from the table, the chair legs scraping softly over the floor. As he carries his dish to the sink, he pauses, looking out the window.

“Snow,” he says, voice low.

I stand and cross the small room, joining him at the window. Beyond the glass, the night has gone white. Fat flakes drift lazily through the glow of the porch light, settling on the ground in a blanket that looks inches thick already.

“It would be magical,” I say, leaning closer to the cool pane. “If I didn’t have to drive home in it.”

Wade’s reflection meets mine in the glass, his expression turning serious. “You’re not driving anywhere in this,” he says. “The road will be a sheet of ice by the time you hit the first turn.”

My heart does a funny little skip. The practical part of me knows he’s right — I barely made it up here in daylight with clear roads. But another part of me is suddenly thinking about my little succulent sitting alone back at the cabin.

“Dottie,” I blurt.

“Your plant?” His brow lifts, almost amused.

“She’s by herself.”

His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile.

“Dottie will survive one night.” He leans a shoulder against the window frame, easy but certain. “You, on the other hand, might not if you try to drive in this weather.”

I bite my lip, glancing toward the couch, then the hallway. “There isn’t exactly room for two, though.”

“I’ll take the floor.” He says it like it’s obvious, like there’s no argument to make.

That isn’t the scenario I’d pictured in my head a few times—okay, maybe more than a few — when I thought about Wade.

There’d been less flannel and more—well, other things.

But a snowstorm wasn’t in any of those mental drafts, and maybe this is the best I’m going to get an unexpected night in his cabin, both of us warm and safe while winter piles up outside.

I glance up at him. Flecks of silver speckle his temples and the lines around his eyes show the life he’s already lived. There is no more hiding my attraction to this man, even to myself. But when he looks at me, does he see me as someone more than his neighbor?

Wade’s still looking out at the snow, but there’s the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

My pulse jumps, and I decide I don’t mind at all.