Page 3 of Take Me, Tex (The Mountain Code #3)

Tex

Whiskey usually whines at the door just after dawn, her claws clicking against the hardwood as she paces, so I’m trained to wake up to let her out. This morning, I don’t hear her, though.

I roll out of bed and pull on a flannel shirt that's soft from years of washing.

The fabric smells like cedar from the chest I keep it in, and the morning air is crisp for summer—that cool mountain breeze that seeps through the windows I always leave cracked open, carrying the scent of dew-damp pine and the distant promise of warming earth.

No reason to shut the world out when you've worked this hard to escape it.

I pad into the kitchen on bare feet, the floorboards cool and solid beneath my toes, and stop dead in my tracks.

Nora is curled up on the couch, fast asleep, with Whiskey wedged beside her like a furry space heater.

My T-shirt hangs off one bare shoulder, revealing the elegant curve of her collarbone and the soft hollow at the base of her throat.

Her legs are tucked under the quilt—that old blue and green one my grandmother made—and her hair is now a complete mess of dark waves that spread across the pillow like spilled ink.

She’s beautiful.

Too beautiful.

The morning light streaming through the windows catches in her hair, picking out threads of gold and copper I didn't notice last night.

Her face is soft in sleep, lips slightly parted, and I can see the faint smudge of ink still on her cheek.

She looks younger like this, vulnerable in a way that makes something protective and possessive rise in my chest.

I look away before I do something stupid.

I busy myself with making coffee instead, the familiar ritual grounding me.

The beans are a dark roast I get from a shop in town, and the smell as they brew is rich and comforting.

I can hear the coffee maker gurgling, the sound mixing with the soft rush of wind through the trees outside and Whiskey's contented sighs from the couch.

Try not to imagine what she'd look like waking up in my bed instead of on my couch.

Don't go there, Tex.

When she finally stirs, making a soft sound that goes straight to my gut, I'm already halfway through making breakfast. Six eggs crackle in a cast iron pan that's older than I am, and bacon sizzles on the griddle.

She rubs sleep from her eyes with the back of her hand, her movements slow and graceful, and mumbles something that sounds like "mmm, books. "

Did she mean bacon?

Holy hell, even her sleepy mumbles are adorable.

She stumbles over to the kitchen area, her bare feet silent on the wood floor, and I try not to notice how my shirt falls to mid-thigh on her smaller frame, or how the morning light makes her skin glow like honey.

"Morning," she says, her voice husky with sleep. "I dreamed I was rescued by a rugged woodland king.”

“Someone reads too many novels,” I say, handing her a mug of coffee that's still steaming. Our fingers brush again as she takes it, and I feel that same electric jolt from last night.

Her eyes widen in mock horror. “Impossible.”

I chuckle. “I took a look at your van, and it should be easy to fix, so long as the parts store has what I need. They open at eight, so I'll call then.”

"Thanks again. Seriously." She cradles the mug with both hands like it's a precious thing and gives me a sleepy smile that hits me like a sucker punch to the gut.

Her eyes are still soft with sleep, but there's something else there…

a warmth that makes my chest tight. "When the van broke down, I thought I’d be spending the night in the middle of the woods.

I didn't expect a warm place to sleep, much less wake up to coffee and bacon. "

The bacon pops and hisses in the pan, and I flip it with more force than necessary. "Sit. Eat."

Whiskey thumps her tail approvingly from her spot on the couch, and I catch Nora smiling at the dog like they're sharing some private joke.

At eight sharp, I call the auto shop down in Cedar Hollow. The phone crackles with static, and I have to shout to be heard over the poor connection. It takes three different transfers and a lot of frustrated waiting, but I finally get a guy named Keith on the line.

He sounds exhausted, slightly annoyed, and like he's already had too much coffee.

"Fan relay switch?" he repeats, like I asked for something cursed or impossible to find. "Gonna have to order that in."

"How long?" I ask.

"Monday morning delivery, if we're lucky. Could be Tuesday."

I hang up and brace myself before turning to Nora, who's now feeding Whiskey a bite of bacon under the table like she's been living here forever. The sight of her, comfortable and natural in my space, does something dangerous to my equilibrium.

She looks up, and I can see in her eyes that she's already read my expression. "Bad news?"

"Part won't be in 'til Monday or Tuesday."

"Oh." Her smile falters for half a second, and I catch a glimpse of disappointment that she quickly covers. "Okay. That's... okay. I can just hike back to the ranger station and catch a ride from there."

I shake my head, the idea of her walking those dangerous mountain roads alone making something cold settle in my stomach. "Not happening."

Her eyebrows lift. "Why not?"

"I'm not sending you off alone with no backup.” The thought of something happening to her—a twisted ankle, a wrong turn, worse—makes my jaw clench.

She frowns, and I can see her hackles rising slightly. "So what, I'm just stuck here?"

I bristle at her words.

"I'll take you back to town if you want.” I force my voice to stay level and reasonable. "No one is holding you hostage.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Or you can stay,” I say, my voice sounding harsher than I intended.

The morning air stirs through the open windows, carrying the scent of warming earth and pine sap, and I watch her consider her options. There's a beat of silence where I can hear my own heartbeat, the distant call of a hawk, and the soft sound of her breathing.

Then she asks, "And what happens if I stay?"

The question hangs in the air between us like a challenge, and I don't answer right away.

Instead, I let my eyes sweep over her, taking in the way the morning light catches in her hair, the soft curve of her shoulder where my shirt has slipped, and the way her hands are wrapped around that coffee mug like she's trying to warm herself from the inside out.

Her bare shoulder, her lips slightly parted like she's already imagining the answer.

What happens if she stays?

I touch the brim of my coffee mug to my lip, using it to hide the thoughts that threaten to slip out—thoughts about what I'd like to do with two more days, thoughts about the way she fits in my space like she belongs here, thoughts about the soft sounds she might make if I kissed her the way I've been wanting to since the moment I saw her.

"We spend the weekend together," I say finally.

But my tone says more . Says everything .

And I think she hears it, because her cheeks flush pink like sunrise, and she doesn't look away.