Page 6 of The Mountain Man’s Untamed Bride (Mountain Man Sanctuary #4)

Bodhi stood in the doorway, axe still in hand, eyes wild with alarm. His gaze swept from the foam-covered disaster to me—covered in extinguisher residue, wearing nothing but a now-white-coated apron and a thong that left my entire back and most of my backside exposed to his view.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. I watched as his eyes widened, then darkened, his grip on the axe handle tightening until his knuckles whitened.

His jaw clenched visibly, and the muscles in his throat worked as he swallowed hard.

For one heated moment, he looked less like a man who'd discovered a disaster and more like a predator who'd spotted prey.

"I made breakfast," I finally said, gesturing weakly at the foam-submerged pan.

His expression shifted from that initial, primal reaction to something I couldn't quite read—a mixture of disbelief, exasperation, and something else that made my skin tingle despite the chemicals coating it.

"I can see that." He set the axe by the door with careful precision, like a man deliberately controlling his movements. "Are you hurt?"

I shook my head, suddenly aware of how ridiculous I must look. "Just my pride. And possibly your kitchen."

He approached slowly, surveying the damage with the resigned expression of a man who'd expected disaster but perhaps not quite this magnitude. When he reached me, he lifted his hand to my face, his thumb gently wiping a glob of foam from my cheek.

Time suspended itself. His calloused thumb against my skin sent electricity shooting through my body that had nothing to do with the malfunctioning appliances.

His eyes—those whiskey-colored eyes that had seemed so cold yesterday—had darkened to something molten.

His bare chest was inches from me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his skin.

"You've got..." His voice was rough as he brushed another spot of foam from my jaw, his touch lingering just a fraction too long to be casual. His thumb traced a slow path down to the corner of my mouth, hesitating there as his eyes followed the movement.

I could feel my pulse everywhere—in my throat, my wrists, between my legs. The kitchen suddenly felt too warm despite the open window, the air too thick to properly breathe.

"Everywhere," I finished for him, my voice embarrassingly breathy. "I've got foam everywhere."

Something flickered in his eyes—a flare of heat quickly banked—as his hand dropped reluctantly back to his side.

I swallowed hard, suddenly forgetting my carefully crafted seduction script. "So... do you order takeout from a local breakfast café? I could really go for some smoked salmon crepes, or maybe some Eggs Benedict."

The tension broke as his lips twitched into what might have been the ghost of a smile. "I have a river that delivers trout if you're patient."

"Somehow I don't think trout crepes are a thing," I replied, trying to maintain my composure despite being nearly naked, covered in fire extinguisher foam, and standing closer to him than strictly necessary.

He stepped back, breaking the moment, and tossed me a clean dish towel. "Get dressed. I'll handle this."

"But breakfast—"

"Will be ready when you're back. With clothes on," he commanded, his tone making it clear this wasn't a suggestion.

Ten minutes and an uncomfortably cold shower later (apparently the solar hot water needed more time to heat up), I returned to the kitchen wearing the most modest outfit I'd packed—which wasn't saying much.

The jeans were still tight enough to require a lying-down-on-the-bed wiggle to zip, and the v-neck t-shirt still showed more cleavage than my father would approve of, but at least all the important bits were covered.

The kitchen had been restored to some semblance of order.

The foam was gone, the pan cleaned and back on the stove, and the smoke detector had ceased its electronic tantrum.

Bodhi, now unfortunately wearing a shirt, was sliding perfectly cooked eggs onto two plates beside bacon that looked crispy rather than cremated.

"How did you do that with the same ingredients?" I asked, genuinely impressed and a little outraged. The eggs were perfectly cooked—the whites set but the yolks still runny—and the bacon was evenly crisped without a hint of char.

"Experience," he said simply, setting the plates on the small table. "And not setting the stove to nuclear."

"So you actually know how to cook?" I questioned, unable to hide my surprise. "I figured mountain men lived on beef jerky and squirrel stew."

He huffed what might have been a laugh. "Squirrels are too much work for too little meat."

After breakfast, which was surprisingly good for such simple fare, Bodhi offered to show me around the property. Whether this was genuine hospitality or a desire to keep me away from any more of his appliances was unclear.

The morning air was fresh with the scent of pine as we walked the perimeter of his land.

He pointed out various features with the precision of a museum guide who'd rather be anywhere else—the garden where he grew vegetables, the woodshed where he stored timber for winter, the small workshop where he built furniture.

"And this," he said finally, approaching a structure that looked like a miniature cabin, "is where Colonel and his ladies live."

The chicken coop was surprisingly elaborate, with a covered run area and what appeared to be handcrafted nesting boxes visible through the wire mesh. Colonel strutted importantly at our approach, his feathers puffed up as if he were lord of all he surveyed.

Six hens clucked softly in the background, pecking at the ground with far less dramatic flair than their male counterpart.

"You built this?" I asked, noting the careful craftsmanship of the small structure.

Bodhi nodded. "They need protection from predators. Bears, foxes, eagles would all consider them an easy meal."

Colonel approached Bodhi with what could only be described as adoration, pecking gently at his boots in what seemed like a greeting. Bodhi reached down and, to my astonishment, stroked the rooster's feathers. The bird actually leaned into his touch like a cat.

"Even his chicken is in love with him," I muttered under my breath. "Traitor."

Bodhi glanced up. "What?"

"Nothing," I said quickly. "Just admiring your... chicken whisperer abilities."

He stood, and Colonel resumed his patrol of the coop perimeter, occasionally shooting me suspicious glances.

"That bird has trust issues," I observed.

"He's protective," Bodhi corrected. "Keeps his flock safe."

The way he said it—with a hint of respect in his voice—made me wonder if he saw himself the same way. A protector. A guardian of his small domain against outside threats.

Including, perhaps, city girls with fire extinguishers and seduction plans.

I smiled to myself as we walked back toward the cabin. Operation: Deflower Me Now had suffered a minor setback, but I wasn't defeated. I just needed to adjust my strategy.

After all, I'd seen the way his eyes had darkened when he'd touched my face. The way his gaze had momentarily dropped to my lips. Behind that gruff exterior was a man of flesh and blood, not stone.

And I had plenty more steps in my plan.