She huffs. “Okay, I was.”
A sound like a laugh slips out of me—quiet, surprised.
Then I step back, because if I don’t leave now, I won’t leave at all.
I open the door, cold air rushing in, and pause on the threshold.
Mila stands in the cabin light, sweater soft, eyes bright, mouth still kissed.
A curvy complication.
A woman I shouldn’t want.
A woman I do.
I force myself into the snow and shut the door behind me.
But the warmth of her stays on my mouth the whole drive back up the mountain.
FIVE
MILA
The problem with being kissed by a mountain man who smells like snow and smoke and trouble is that he leaves—and your body refuses to accept that as a conclusion.
Beau Wilder’s mouth is gone, his hands aren’t on my waist anymore, and the cabin is quiet again… but my skin is still buzzing like it remembers him.
I stand in the middle of Bluebird Cabin, staring at the closed door like it might reopen if I glare hard enough.
It doesn’t.
Of course it doesn’t.
Because Beau is the kind of man who kisses like he means it and then walks out like he’s trying to save both of us from the meaning.
My lips are swollen. My cheeks are hot. My heart is doing something between a sprint and a tantrum.
I press my fingers to my mouth and whisper, “What just happened?”
The fire pops in response, like it’s laughing at me.
I pace to the kitchen, then back to the couch, then to the window—because apparently I’ve become a golden retriever with anxiety. Outside, his truck tracks are already getting dusted over by fresh snowfall, as if the mountain is eager to erase proof that Beau was ever here.
But I’m not erased.
Not even close.
I pick up my phone and immediately see the new text from June sitting there like a smug little bomb.
June:Don’t overthink that kiss. Also I’m making pot roast Sunday. Bring dessert. And wear something that makes him sweat.
My jaw drops.
I type back with both thumbs like my life depends on it.
Me:EXCUSE ME?
Three dots appear.
