Page 5 of The Mountain Man's Curvy Trick-or-Treat
“Thank you. It’s really chilly in here,” she says, hugging herself and looking around. “And that sound…”
“Senti—” I catch myself before I admit to the shielding field and the low hum that protects this location. “Generator.”
She nods.
“Am I your first trick-or-treater of the night?” An inviting smile warms her face. No wonder our commander warns us away from talking to human women. They’re downright adorable.
First trick-or-treater, ever. But I don’t feel like explaining all that. Instead, I nod. I scan my cabin, woefully unprepared for costume-clad gremlins or their curvy, sweet-smelling counterparts.
“Star-honey?” I arch an eyebrow.
Her bottom lip drops open. I feel it to the depths of my soul.
Before she can change her mind, I head into the kitchen, return with a tray of tempting confections in ruby red, starlight purple, and emerald green. I grab a green one, savoring its sticky heat and otherworldly sweetness. All I have left of the homeworld that’s forgotten me.
“When I was a kid, it was all Starbursts and Skittles.Thisis…” Her face pales as she tries to find the right word.
“Homemade,” I offer. “A special treat where I’m from.”
“So you’re not a local?”
I shrug. Let’s see, does more than two centuries qualify? I run a hand through my hair, buy myself a moment to think. “Been here long enough, I’d say.”
She nods, forcing the corners of her mouth up as she grabs a red one, slides it between her lips. They glisten as she moans. My pulse spikes. “Amazing! What is this again?”
“Star-honey.”
“Wow, I’m going to need to get the recipe.”
I look down, not thrilled by the suggestion. Entrusting earthlings with Sentinel secrets, another act of sedition.
Grabbing my flannel, I shrug into it, though my hot skin protests. It’s too difficult to suppress the glow around this woman. Trouble enough keeping my face and hands flesh-toned.
“I’m Eden, by the way,” she says, reaching a sticky hand toward me. Every part of me wants to lick it clean. Instead, I grit my jaw, force a frown. “I’m new in town. The owner of Eden’s Bakery.”
“Everett.”
An uneasy silence settles between us.
She lifts an eyebrow. “You don’t do small talk?”
I shrug.
She smiles.
“You say you’re new in town. Why move here?”
“The move was supposed to clear my head—get me off the couch, away from the pity texts, maybe even remind me I’m still alive.”
Unexpected excitement shivers through me. “Yes, I know what you mean.” I shouldn’t drop my guard with this human. But I sense she understands me in a way no one else does.
The cabin shakes, storm coming in full force now. Sounds like a gale outside. A downpour hammers the roof.
“Don’t think you’ll be going anywhere in this weather.”
“No, Mrs. Camden’s out of luck.”
“She who wanted you dressed in this manner?” I ask skeptically, blood blazing at the thought of another male seeing her this way. Soft curves, an invitation my big, dumb hands long to claim.