Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 41327 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 207(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 138(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41327 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 207(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 138(@300wpm)
"Sorry," I whisper, mortified.
His jaw tightens, muscles flexing dangerously. "Don’t apologize. You should only apologize for things you did to deliberately hurt someone, then you make amends and move on."
The odd warmth and relief in his statement leaves me uncomfortable but silently swooning a little.
"My river didn’t apologize, and it tried to kill you," he says, voice dropping to a possessive growl. "But that’s just the river being the river, it wasn’t nothing personal. It dares try that again though, then it will be personal.”
"Your river?" I raise an eyebrow. "The water didn't mention it had an owner."
The corner of his mouth twitches—almost a smile. Almost.
"Everything on this mountain answers to me." His eyes lock with mine as he carries me up the steps, my body weightless in his arms. "Including you, now. Especially you."
"My father talked about you," I say as he shoulders open the door. "Never mentioned you lived like a some feral lumber baron in a log castle at the top of the world."
Something flickers in his expression—surprise, maybe approval at my attempt at humor. He shoulders open the door without setting me down, the oddness of his lingering grip making me want to wiggle free.
The cabin's interior swallows us in warmth that makes my frozen skin tingle painfully. Cathedral ceilings with exposed beams. A stone fireplace that dominates one wall. Bookshelves overflowing with leather-bound books showing worn gold leaf on the spines. Furniture that looks handcrafted—solid, masculine, built to last lifetimes.
Any color there is reminds me of flannel shirts. Deep blue, red, green, tan…it’s like Woodrich of LL Bean was in charge of the décor.
What catches me off guard is the display shelf along one wall—dozens of Rubik's cubes in various stages of completion. Not just the standard ones, but pyramids, dodecahedrons, and shapes I can't even name.
"You weren't kidding about the puzzles," I say, suddenly aware I'm dripping river water onto his floor.
He follows my gaze, a hint of color touching his cheeks. "Helps me think. Keeps my hands busy." His fingers flex against my thigh, digging in slightly. "When they'd rather be busy elsewhere."
"How fast can you solve one?"
"Standard 3x3? Forty-three seconds." He states it like a fact, not a boast, his eyes never leaving my face.
"Impressive."
"Not really. World record's a little over three seconds." He clears his throat, the little nerd out he was displaying swallowed again by the gruff mountain man. His shoulders straighten, voice dropping back to its gravel register. "Not that it fucking matters out here."
Near the hearth sits a half-finished wooden cradle, its curves sanded to impossible smoothness. The sight of it strikes me harder than the cold has.
"You have children?" The question escapes before I can stop it.
His eyes follow my gaze, then he growls. "Commission," he says shortly, finally setting me down. His hands linger at my waist, fingers pressing into my flesh like he's afraid I'll disappear. "Banker in Denver. Second baby."
I nod, swaying slightly on feet I can't quite feel. His hands instantly tighten, stabilizing me against his solid form.
"Shower's through there." He points down a hallway, his massive hand still spanning my waist completely. "Water takes a minute to heat. Towels in the cabinet." His gaze travels my body, no longer just assessing damage—now there's unmistakable hunger flaring in his eyes. "Clothes in the dresser in my room. Take what you need. It’s all flannel and denim and boxers, but pretty sure you’ll make them look way better than I could.”
"I have clothes in my backpack," I say, gesturing to the still open door where the four-wheeler is parked outside.
His eyes flick in that direction, then back to me. "Those are wet. You’ll wear my clothes, now go before I follow you in there and make sure you get warm and clean."
That makes me clench. But, he’s right, I’m still freezing, and the wet clothes are making my skin wrinkle.
The promise of hot water is too tempting. The promise of being surrounded by his scent is even more tempting.
"Thank you," I manage. "For the river. For this."
His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking beneath the skin. "Don't thank me yet, Delaney Hart. You don't know what saving you is going to cost."
The words should frighten me. Instead, they send a bolt of liquid heat straight between my legs that has nothing to do with my wet clothes.
The shower is blissfully hot, steam filling the small bathroom until I can barely see. I scrub river silt from my hair, inspect bruises blooming along my ribs, try not to think about the mountain man waiting beyond the door. Fail miserably.
His bathroom tells its own story—unscented soap, straight razor beside the sink which from the beard he’s sporting isn’t used often, a single toothbrush. No evidence of women. No softness. Just functionality and raw masculinity.
In his bedroom, I face the same stark simplicity. King bed with navy sheets pulled military-tight. Dresser with nothing atop it but a folded American flag in a triangular case. A single framed photo—him in fatigues with three other men in civilian clothes who share enough of his features to be brothers.