Page 2 of Take Me, Tex (The Mountain Code #3)
Nora
I was supposed to be back in town an hour ago.
One last stop on my first official solo book route—a triumphant circuit through the mountain communities with my carefully organized inventory of paperbacks and audiobooks—then a long drive home with my reward cinnamon roll from Murphy's Bakery and a smug sense of accomplishment.
But no. Instead, my bookmobile is being towed up a gravel road that seems to climb straight into the clouds, by a man built like a survivalist lumberjack and his very good dog.
The man—Tex—drives a beat-up Chevy that somehow still manages to look powerful and dependable.
The truck's interior smells like worn leather and pine air freshener, with an undertone of motor oil and something masculine that I can't quite place but that makes my pulse quicken.
The dog is seated between us, a sweet, scruffy mutt named Whiskey who licks my arm to demand pets.
How’d I get myself into this mess?
The truck rocks gently as we climb, and I try not to have a meltdown.
Or a crush.
Which would be easier if Tex wasn't a walking fantasy in faded jeans that hug his thighs just right, and a thermal shirt the color of charcoal with sleeves shoved up over his forearms. Those forearms are a work of art, corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair, his hands strong on the steering wheel.
His jaw is shadowed with a dark beard that looks like it would scratch in all the best ways, and when he glances at me in the rearview mirror, his eyes are the color of storm clouds.
Ugh. Nora. Get a grip.
The truck's engine hums steadily as we climb, and through the open windows, I can smell the mountain evening coming alive—pine sap and cool earth, the green scent of moss and ferns, and somewhere in the distance, the faint smokiness of a campfire.
When we finally pull up to his cabin, I blink in surprise.
It's... cozy.
Not in the Pinterest way, with distressed wood signs and mason jar lighting.
There are no fairy lights or artfully arranged throw pillows or color-coded bookshelves.
But it's clean and solid, built from honey-colored logs that glow in the fading light.
Smoke curls from a stone chimney, carrying the rich scent of burning oak.
There's a heavy wooden porch swing that creaks softly in the evening breeze, and the whole place is surrounded by the kind of deep, comfortable quiet that makes you want to whisper.
I can hear water running somewhere nearby, probably a creek, and the soft rustle of leaves in the wind.
Tex hops out, his boots hitting the gravel with a solid thunk, and unhooks the chain from my van. "We'll leave it here for now," he says, his voice carrying easily in the still air. "I'll check it out in the morning before the auto-parts store opens."
"Thank you. I’m just going to get my bag," I say, walking toward the bookmobile. I reach inside to grab my massive tote from the pile of library supplies. The canvas feels rough under my palms, and I'm grateful for my librarian habit of overpacking. I don’t have spare clothes, unfortunately, but there’s deodorant, toothpaste, and a travel-sized toothbrush tucked into a side pocket.
Be prepared for anything, Miss Ada warned me when I took the job.
Though I doubt she could have predicted I’d be stranded with a man who looks like he stepped off the cover of a romance novel.
He leads me up the porch steps, the wood solid beneath my feet, and flips on a single light that casts everything in warm yellow. The cabin opens into one big room that smells like cedar and wood smoke and something cooking that makes my stomach rumble embarrassingly loud.
The kitchen is small but efficient, with open shelves displaying mismatched dishes and cast iron pans that look well-used and well-loved.
A stone fireplace dominates one wall, with a few glowing embers still winking in the grate.
There's a well-worn couch with a quilt tossed over the back—handmade, with small, careful stitches in blues and greens that remind me of the forest outside.
Whiskey trots to a dog bed in the corner—a thick, cushioned affair that's clearly been claimed as her personal kingdom—and flops down with a dramatic sigh that makes me smile.
"You hungry?" Tex asks, already moving toward the stove. "I've got venison chili and cornbread."
My stomach growls so loudly I wince. The scent of chili hits me now, rich and spicy, with hints of cumin and something smoky that makes my mouth water. "That's not fair. You can't just rescue me and offer chili."
His mouth twitches like it's thinking about a smile, and I catch a glimpse of something softer beneath that rugged exterior. "It's not gourmet, but it's hot."
‘Hot’ should be this guy’s middle name…
I sit at the small wooden table—the surface worn smooth by years of use—while he ladles chili into mismatched bowls. He hands me a spoon, and our fingers brush for just a moment. His skin is warm and slightly rough, and I feel that brief contact all the way up my arm.
The chili is incredible. Rich and hearty, with tender chunks of meat that practically melt on my tongue.
The cornbread is golden and crumbly, with a hint of sweetness that balances the heat perfectly.
We eat in comfortable silence, the kind you don't expect with strangers, with only the soft sounds of our spoons against ceramic and Whiskey's gentle snores.
When we're finished, I rinse the dishes in water that runs cold and clean from the tap, while he wipes down the table with methodical care.
The simple domesticity of it feels surprisingly intimate, like we're two people who've been sharing evening chores for years instead of strangers who met an hour ago.
He disappears into a back room and returns with a folded T-shirt and a toothbrush still in its wrapper. The shirt is soft cotton, worn to perfect comfort, and when I shake it out, I can smell the clean scent of laundry detergent.
"You can take the couch," he says, setting the items on the armrest. His voice is rougher now, like he's fighting some internal battle. "Bathroom's through there."
I glance at the shirt in my hands. It's enormous, with Tex & Whiskey’s Survival Guide printed across the front in faded letters. The fabric is incredibly soft, worn thin in all the right places, and I run my fingers over the cotton like I'm memorizing its texture.
I open my mouth to thank him, but my curiosity gets the best of me. “What is Tex & Whiskey’s Survival Guide ?”
He shoves his hands in his pockets. Is that heat in his cheeks? “Um, I have a YouTube channel,” he says.
“You cover wilderness skills and stuff?”
He nods. “Yep.”
I catalogue the information for later. I’ll definitely be looking up his channel the first chance I get.
“Well, this is really kind of you," I say softly, meaning it more than I can express. "I promise I'm not usually this helpless."
"You're not helpless," he says, his voice carrying a conviction that makes something warm unfurl in my chest. "Your van broke down. That's all."
And with that, he nods once, a gesture that somehow manages to be both reassuring and final, and retreats to the back room, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
Leaving me standing in his living room with a racing heart, a soft shirt with his name on it, and the unsettling suspicion that I might sleep better on this mountain than I have in years.