“Whatever you think.”
The trust in that knocks something loose in my chest. Each snip feels intimate, the forest wrapping around this unexpected, quiet moment of domesticity. His shoulders are broad, muscles shifting beneath skin dotted with scars. I pretend not to notice how close my thighs are to his back.
When I finish, I brush loose strands from his neck. He turns slightly, blue eyes glinting. “Better?”
I nod, voice barely a whisper. “Dangerously better.”
His laugh is low, warm. “Guess I’ll take that as approval.”
For one dizzy second, I think he might reach for me—but Bear barks from the treeline, breaking the spell. Denver stretches, acting like nothing happened.
I, however, can’t stop smiling. My hands still smell like him.
I set the scissors down, taking a seat next to him on the porch step. The forest hums, wind rustling in the pines, the roar of a distant creek. So beautiful. I could never tire of this place. But the loneliness, I’m less sure about.
“Do you ever miss the world beyond these mountains?”
He shrugs, looking across the yard. “World’s still out there. Just don’t need to chase it.”
His words strike hard. “I’ve been chasing everything—views, validation, speed—but never peace,” I confess.
He nods, face sympathetic, no judgment. “It can be different up here.”
Maybe what I’ve been looking for isn’t success, it’s stillness. Maybe the mountain didn’t just give me a challenge. Maybe it gave me him.
Chapter
Seven
DENVER
By the time the sun dips behind the pines, the day’s work hums through my body.
Tools cleaned. Pipes sealed. Her laughter still echoing in my head.
Dahlia’s at my stove now, humming, hair tied up in some messy knot that makes it hard to look anywhere else. The new flannel I lent her hangs loose off one shoulder, brushing soft skin that glows burnished gold in the firelight.
“I said I’d cook tonight,” she reminds me, stirring a skillet like she’s trying to tame it.
“You insisted,” I correct, leaning against the counter. “Can’t stop a woman on a mission.”
“Exactly,” she says, flashing that grin that could thaw glaciers. “Besides, you fixed my kitchen sink. I owe you dinner.”
The pan spits and hisses. So does Bear when a bit of butter lands on his paw. I fight the smile tugging at my mouth. “You always this good at multitasking?”
“Define good.” She lifts the spoon, grimaces. “Okay, maybe not. But it’s edible.”
I step closer, peer over her shoulder. “You call that edible?”
She bumps me with her hip. “Don’t test me, mountain man.”
I shouldn’t like the feel of her pressed against me, but I do. Too damn much.
“Guess I’ll have to supervise,” I mutter, reaching around her to turn down the flame. My arm brushes hers. Heat flares stronger than the stove.
For a heartbeat, she goes still. Then, quieter, “You always this bossy in the kitchen?”
“Only when someone forgets salt.”
