Page 4 of Take Me, Tex (The Mountain Code #3)

Nora

I should go.

Any sensible woman would accept the ride back to town, thank this man for his hospitality, and get as far away from this dangerous chemistry as possible. I should call my supervisor, explain the situation, arrange for someone else to cover my route on Monday.

But when Tex looks at me like that—all quiet intensity and unspoken promise, his gray eyes dark with something that makes my skin feel too tight—I don't want to be sensible.

I want to stay.

The morning air through the windows carries the scent of pine and possibility, and I can feel my pulse thrumming in my throat like a trapped bird.

"It's only two days," I say, pretending I'm still deciding when we both know I made up my mind the moment he said stay . "And you're sure I'm not a burden?"

He just raises one dark brow, and the gesture is so perfectly him—economical, confident, with just a hint of amusement—that I feel something flutter in my chest.

"Whiskey likes you."

I glance over at the dog, who is now dozing on the couch. "Ah, the ultimate seal of approval."

"She doesn't like many people."

There's something in his voice; a note of sincerity that makes me look at him more carefully. His face is serious, and I realize he's not just being polite. This matters to him.

"Smart girl," I say softly.

Tex doesn't say anything, but there's a glint in his eyes that makes my heart skip like a stone across water.

We spend the morning outside, where the mountain air is crisp and clean, carrying the scent of warming earth and the distant sound of running water.

Tex wants to make sure I don't get bored, which is laughable, considering I'm a librarian with a backpack full of books and an endless capacity for entertaining myself.

But he insists on teaching me how to filter water using a sock, some charcoal, and a soda bottle, which is both ridiculous and fascinating.

His hands are sure and competent as he demonstrates, and I find myself watching the way his fingers move, the way he handles each component with practiced ease.

"The charcoal removes impurities," he explains, his voice taking on a different quality when he's teaching—more patient, more detailed. "And the sock acts as a preliminary filter for the larger particles."

He's surprisingly patient when I mess up the layering, just chuckling—a sound that rumbles up from his chest and makes my toes curl in my sneakers—and saying, "Try again.

" His breath is warm against my cheek when he leans over to correct my grip, and I catch a hint of his scent—clean and masculine, with that underlying note of smoke and musk.

By the time the sun hits high noon, we've built a small fire pit together, our hands working in tandem to arrange the stones. The rocks are warm from the sun and rough against my palms, and when our fingers accidentally brush as we reach for the same stone, I feel that spark of electricity again.

We boil coffee over the fire just for fun, the flames crackling and sending up sparks that dance in the clear mountain air. The coffee tastes different this way—smokier, more complex, with an edge of wood and fire that makes even the simple act of drinking feel like an adventure.

My hands smell like smoke and pine sap, and my cheeks hurt from smiling. The sun is warm on my shoulders, and I can feel myself relaxing in a way I haven't in months. Maybe years.

And I'm completely, totally doomed.

Because this man? He's everything I didn't know I wanted.

Rough around the edges in all the right ways.

Steady as the mountain beneath my feet. Quiet in a way that feels intentional rather than uncomfortable.

Capable in a way that feels ancient and grounding, like he could handle anything the world threw at him and still have energy left over to take care of me.

It's not just attraction, though God knows there's plenty of that. It's comfort. It's the feeling of being seen and valued and protected. It's belonging.

It's... terrifying.

Later that afternoon, clouds start to roll in, gray and heavy with the promise of rain. The air pressure drops, making my ears pop, and the breeze picks up, cooler now, brushing goosebumps up my arms and carrying the ozone scent of an approaching storm.

Tex opens the screen door, and I hear the hinges creak softly in the still air. He nods toward the cabin, his expression alert and watchful in the way of someone who reads weather like a book. "Come on. Looks like we're gettin' a shower."

I shower quickly in his small bathroom, washing off the day's accumulation of smoke and pine sap and sweat.

The water is hot, and the pressure is perfect, and I use his soap—something simple and clean that smells like him.

When I towel dry my hair, I catch my reflection in the mirror and barely recognize myself.

My cheeks are flushed, my eyes bright, and I look.

.. alive in a way I haven't in too long.

I change into the same oversized T-shirt from last night, the fabric soft and familiar against my skin, and a pair of clean shorts.

I step into the main room just as a low roll of thunder echoes in the distance, the sound vibrating through the floorboards and into my bones. The air feels electric, charged with possibility and the approaching storm.

Tex is at the stove, reheating the chili, his broad shoulders relaxed but alert. He's changed into a clean shirt, dark gray this time, and it clings to his frame in a way that makes my mouth go dry.

He turns when he hears me—and stops.

I freeze, suddenly very aware of my bare legs and the way his shirt hangs off my frame.

The fabric is soft and well-worn, and it falls to mid-thigh, leaving my legs exposed from the knees down.

I can feel the air conditioning raising goosebumps on my skin, and I'm acutely conscious of the way the cotton moves with each breath.

His eyes drag over me slowly. Deliberately. Starting at my feet and moving up with the kind of thorough attention that makes heat pool in my belly and my breath catch in my throat.

And then his gaze lands on mine, and the air between us crackles with electricity that has nothing to do with the storm outside.

"Um, hi." The words catch in my throat like they're tangled up with my suddenly racing pulse.

"Hungry?" he asks, his voice low and rough in a way that makes my knees weak.

I nod, not trusting my voice.

He sets down the spoon with deliberate care, the metal clanking softly against the ceramic bowl, and I can hear the rain starting to tap against the roof like a soft drumbeat. The sound is rhythmic and soothing, but it does nothing to ease the tension stretching between us like a wire pulled taut.

He closes the distance between us in three measured steps, and suddenly he's right there, close enough that I can smell his soap and feel the heat radiating from his skin. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.

"You sure you want to stay?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

The question is loaded with meaning, and we both know he's not just talking about the weekend anymore. He's talking about this moment, this choice, this precipice we're balanced on.

I nod again, my pulse hammering so hard I'm sure he can hear it.

His fingers brush my cheek—rough and warm and careful, like he's handling something precious—and I feel that touch all the way down to my toes.

"I'm tryin' real hard to be a gentleman," he murmurs, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw.

I tilt my chin up, meeting his eyes with all the courage I can muster. "Don't."