It didn’t sound like a compliment, and I didn’t take it that way. “You probably ought to run while you can.”
She nuzzled closer, her palm skimming over my belly. “I think I’ll take my chances. You’re not nearly as scary as you think you are.”
“Something to work on, I guess.” Damn her. She was tempting me to believe in shit like happy ever afters. I splayed my hand over the small of her back while I wondered how this would end. As much as I wanted her, literally craved the feel of her in my arms, I wasn’t made for anything long term. Yeah, I’d claimed her. She’d fucking imprinted on my heart and soul. But that didn’t mean we’d last.
I was the Ghost of Hard Timber. The name might sting, but I didn’t earn that label by sticking around.
Her stomach growled against my side. It had been hours since I’d found her on the trail, and I hadn’t thought to ask her if she was hungry. Protectiveness surged.
“You need something to eat, sweetpea. How about an omelet?” I was already sliding my arm out from underneath her when she flipped on top of me.
“Don’t get up yet. I’d rather be hungry and stay like this.”
I was tempted. But I also knew that if I didn’t get some space, I might get way too used to this. To having her here… to having her next to me… to having her in my bed.
“Food first.” I pressed a kiss to forehead as I rolled out of bed then reached for my jeans. “You stay here, and I’ll bring it to you in a bit.”
She pulled the covers up to her chin and damn if I didn’t love the way she looked in my bed. Her bottom lip thrust out in a slight pout, and it took every bit of willpower not to sink back down on the bed and kiss that frown away.
I padded out to the kitchen. Bear scrambled off the couch and stretched. He wasn’t supposed to get on the furniture, but I didn’t have the heart to scold him. Not when I’d locked myself in my room and failed to feed him dinner.
He stood by the door, not caring that it was raining outside. I let him out then scrounged around, looking for something to toss into the omelet I’d promised Joely.
What the fuck was I doing with the writer from out of town? I was too old for a fling and too hardened to consider an actual relationship. I cracked a few eggs into the bowl and whisked them faster than necessary. The skillet sizzled as I tossed in some onions and diced peppers from the fridge. This wasn’t just breakfast-for-dinner. It was about grounding myself. About doing something while my insides felt like they were turning to mush over a woman who’d been in my life for, what, a few days?
The door to the bedroom creaked open. I glanced over and almost dropped the spatula. Joely stood there in nothing but one of my flannel shirts, the hem brushing her thighs. Her hair was a mess, and her lips were swollen from our kisses. She looked rumpled, radiant, and mine.
“I told you to stay in bed.”
“You did.” She crossed the room barefoot. “But then you said omelet, and I didn’t want to miss out on seeing you standing in front of a stove.”
I let out a soft laugh and rubbed my hand over my belly. “I didn’t get to be this size without figuring out how to feed myself.”
She smiled and grabbed two plates from the cabinet. Damn if that didn’t tug at something in my chest. She fit in, almost too well. And that scared the shit out of me.
We sat down, our knees brushing under the table as Bear came in, flopped down at our feet, and let out a contented huff. Thunder rumbled in the distance, low and lazy now that the worst of the storm had passed.
As much as I didn’t want to think about it, I could get used to this. And a part of me deep down inside wanted to try.
Joely was mid-bite when her phone lit up and vibrated against the table. She glanced at the screen and froze, the muscles in her jaw tightening.
“Everything okay?” I asked, bracing for what she might say.
She wiped her fingers on a napkin and picked up the phone. “It’s the editor who hired me for the piece I’m writing. I’d better take it.”
She stepped outside onto the covered porch, the door clicking shut behind her. I tried not to listen, but she stood in front of the window, and I caught enough to know the conversation wasn’t casual. Her voice was sharper than usual, more clipped. A few yeahs, a few mmhmms, and then a long pause. When she came back in, she didn’t sit.
“Are you alright?” I asked.
“Yeah. That was…” she trailed off, pressing her lips together. “My editor wants to tack on a new angle for the story.”
I raised a brow, suspicious. “What kind of angle?”
She slid back onto her chair. “Have you heard about something called The Ex-List?”
A muscle jumped in my jaw, and I reached for my coffee. I didn’t want to lie, but I also didn’t want to admit I was number two on the damn list since she clearly didn’t know. “What kind of story does your editor want?”
“Apparently someone posted a blog calling out six emotionally unavailable mountain men in Hard Timber. It’s gotten enough traction online that my editor thinks it’s worthy of its own story.”
