Page 35 of Maple Kissed by the Mountain Man

This kiss wasn’t like the ones in the storm. It wasn’t fueled by desperation, cold, or the dark shelter of the tent. The sun was shining brightly over us, illuminating every rough line of his face, making it impossible to deny what was happening.

His tongue stroked mine with slow, possessive confidence. His large hand slid down my spine, cupping my hip and pulling me tight against his hardness.

He wanted me. Plain and simple.

I melted into his chest, my fingers tangling in the front of his shirt.

When he finally pulled back, his breath was warm against my lips. “You got what you came for?”

“I do,” I whispered, the words sounding far heavier than I intended.

I had the photograph. The contest prize wasn’t a guarantee, but this shot gave me a real, fighting chance.

It was the sole reason I’d pestered this man for weeks. It was supposed to be the only thing that mattered.

Yet as I looked into Ford’s guarded eyes, I realized I wanted something I’d never planned on finding up here.

I wanted him.

Before I could build up the courage to ask if what happened between us in the dark had meant anything more to him, his expression suddenly shut down. The warm, teasing look vanished, replaced by a wall that looked impenetrable.

He stepped back, severing our contact. “We need to check the creek.”

The sudden coldness hit me like a slap.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and quickly packed my camera into the dry bag.

Ford didn’t say another word the whole walk back down to the water.

I’d seen him quiet before. Ford quiet was a man saving his breath for the trail, or a man deciding whether a joke was worth making. This was different. This was a man who’d said too much with his mouth on mine two minutes ago and was now walling it back up, brick by brick, right in front of me.

The creek had dropped overnight, the current down to a hard, cold rush instead of the violence of the night before. He didn’t offer to carry me across this time. Just took my hand and led me across.

Not once did he look at me.

By the time my boots hit the far bank, something in my chest had gone as cold as the water.

“Are you going to talk to me?” I asked, my voice low, but determined.

“We need to keep moving. Another system’s coming in.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Ford—”

He acted like he didn’t hear his name and didn’t stop. The walk to his cabin was an agonizing, silent march. He walked two steps ahead of me the entire way. Close enough to be sure I was still there, yet far enough that I couldn’t reach for his hand even if I’d wanted to.

At the moment, I wasn’t sure what I wanted.

The man who had held me in the dark, who had kissed me under the morning sunlight, was completely gone. In his place stood a cold, stone-faced stranger who looked like he hated himself. Or maybe me for still being here.

Even when his cabin came into view, he didn’t stop until he was at the gate. He unlocked it, walked through it and set my bag and camera case down on the hood of my car. He looked like an iron statue—hard, unyielding, and completely shut off.

I stood by the driver’s side door. “You’re not even going to ask me inside to dry off?” I asked quietly.

“No.”

“Oh.” I hated the note in that one single word. Loss. Despair. Want. Need. Heartbreak.