Page 1 of Maple Kissed by the Mountain Man

Chapter One

Ford

How could the sound of one woman’s voice irritate the hell out of me and turn me on at the same time?

“Ford Burke, I know you can hear me!”

Of course I could hear her. Half the mountain could hear her.

I reached down and put another oak round onto the chopping block, the thick muscles of my shoulders tightening as I wiped a streak of sweat from my forehead. It was fall on Lone Mountain and the days were turning cooler, but chopping wood was still hard work.

I turned toward the heavy iron gate at the end of my drive. Maggie Bennett stood on the other side of it, one small hand wrapped tight around a metal bar and the other waving frantically above her head—as if I could somehow overlook the curvy, vibrant woman in the bright red coat.

She’d been haunting my ridge.

Weeks of endless phone calls, handwritten notes shoved deep into my mailbox, and surprise run-ins at the feed store whenever she spotted my truck. Days of me lying awake at night with a hard dick and a dark mood.

All because she wanted to photograph some damn trees.

Well, not just any trees. She wanted access to a pristine, untouched grove of old-growth sugar maples tucked into my northern slope. She swore there weren’t any trees in the county that could match them. Trees that couldn’t be found anywhere else.

She wasn’t wrong. But she still wasn’t getting on my land.

“I can see you looking at me,” she called, her voice carrying through the stillness of the morning.

I considered turning my back. Instead, I brought the iron blade down through the center of wood, splitting it with a deep, echoing crack.

“You know, ignoring a person doesn’t make her disappear.”

That was unfortunate because I didn’t want Maggie here. I pulled the axe free, the movement flexing my chest, and reached for another log. Maggie rattled the iron gate. Hard. My gaze snapped back to her, my jaw clenching. “Stop that.”

Maggie had treated my nonresponse to her attempts to contact me like a personal invitation to yap at my heels like a relentless little Yorkie. That hadn’t stopped my unwanted reaction to her.

Her mouth curved into a slow, mischievous smile. Her lips were a natural bruised berry color that I found fascinating. I wanted to drag my thumb across that full bottom lip.

Hell, I wanted to kiss that full bottom lip.

“You can go home now,” I grunted.

“I could.”

But we both knew she wouldn’t. I chopped a few more logs and she didn’t take a single step toward the little blue SUV parked crookedly beside my mailbox.

A gust of cold October wind lifted the heavy mass of dark curls framing her face. She caught a mouthful of hair, spat it out, and tried to shove the rest behind one ear. The wind tossed it loose again.

I looked away before she caught me staring at her.

Maggie Bennett was too soft, too bright, and too damn noticeable for a man who preferred the solitude and quiet. Besides that kissable mouth, she had wide expressive eyes that saw way too much, and a body that made it damn near impossible to remember why I’d chosen to live alone in the Montana woods.

Her coat belted around her middle before flaring out over full, rolling hips. Dark denim hugged thick, lush thighs, tucked into fashionable brown leather boots that came almost to her knees. I’d memorized every inch of that frame the first time she’d cornered me in the feed store parking lot.

I’d also noticed that the top of her head barely cleared my chest. That her cheeks flushed a gorgeous, furious pink when I stonewalled her—and that she hadn’t backed down once.

I’d spent days trying to burn those details out of my head. Trying not to think about taking those full hips in my hands and anchoring her right where I wanted her. Under me. In my bed.

“I only need a day,” she said, her voice dropping into a persuasive lilt.

“No.”