Page 9 of Stone Cold Mountain Man (Cold Mountain Nights #7)

W ade

The floor’s hard. No surprise there. I’ve got one blanket under me, and another pulled up to my chest, a pillow wedged beneath my head.

It’s not comfortable, but I’ve slept on worse.

Nights in the truck bed, on a fishing trip, curled against tree roots when the weather turned and I couldn’t make it back before dark.

It isn’t the floor keeping me awake. It’s her .

Taylor’s in the bathroom, the light spilling across the hall, the faint sound of running water muffled by the door. I rub a hand over my jaw, thinking about what almost happened on the couch.

I wanted to kiss her. More than I’ve wanted anything in a long time.

For years, I thought solitude was the only way to keep myself sane.

Quiet days, predictable nights, no one to disappoint and no one to lose.

I built a life around silence, convinced it was enough.

But tonight—her laughter, her endless stories, the warmth she drags into every room—tonight showed me something I didn’t even know I wanted.

A life.

With her.

The bathroom light clicks off. The door creaks open, and Taylor steps into the room with her clothes folded neatly in her arms.

She’s wearing one of my shirts.

It hangs loose, soft cotton falling over her curves, the hem just barely skimming the tops of her thighs. My mouth goes dry. Heat rushes through me, sharp and immediate, and I have to shift my hips slightly, so she doesn’t notice what just seeing her has done to me.

She sets her folded clothes on the nightstand, moving like she belongs here, like this is her space too. Then she slips under the covers of my bed—because of course I insisted she take it. She deserves comfort, even if it leaves me on the floor staring up at the shadows crawling across the ceiling.

“You need anything?” I ask, my voice lower than usual.

“I’m fine,” she says softly.

She turns off the lamp, and darkness covers us. Only the sound of the wind fills the silence, whistling against the cabin walls, rattling the eaves.

I close my eyes and listen. Every rustle of the blanket, every shift of her breathing, every sigh. I wonder if she’s falling asleep. I wonder if she’s lying awake like me, thinking about the space between us that feels thinner than it should.

Time drags. The wind howls. And then—

A faint, staccato sound. Teeth chattering.

I frown and push up quietly, careful not to startle her. She’s curled into herself on the bed, the blanket pulled tight around her shoulders, but the cold has snuck in anyway.

I move silently toward the closet, to grab another blanket. But as I pass the bed, her voice stops me.

“Where are you going?”

I glance down. Even in the dark, I can make out the pale outline of her face, her eyes open and watching me.

“Getting you another blanket,” I whisper.

Her hand slips out from under the covers, searching. Fingers brush against mine, soft and warm despite her shivering. She curls them around mine, holding tight.

“You don’t have to,” she murmurs. “You can—you can keep me warm.”

The words hit like a jolt, a live wire under my skin. For a second, I can’t breathe. The air between us feels heavy, charged, like the mountain itself is holding its breath.

I squeeze her hand, fighting every instinct that says this is dangerous, that if I give in now, there’s no going back.

But she’s right there, asking. And God help me, I don’t want to say no.

So, I don’t.