Page 8 of Maple Kissed by the Mountain Man

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “That’s a lot of photo gear.”

“It’s not for gear,” I said softly, looking up at him. “There’s an empty storefront in town. The one beside the bakery with the blue door?”

“I know it.”

“I want to open my own gallery. A place for my prints, my paintings... somewhere that’s mine. The landlord wants six months of rent upfront before he’ll sign the lease. The prize money, along with my savings will be just enough.”

Ford stared at me, his gaze dropping to my mouth, then down to where my hands were trembling slightly against the camera strap.

He didn’t offer cheap sympathy. He didn’t tell me it was fine.

Instead, he reached out, his heavy hand plucking the crimson leaf off his shoulder. He stepped closer—so close I had to tilt my head back—and held the leaf out to me.

I reached up to take it.

Our fingers brushed.

It was a tiny, simple touch, but a violent surge of electricity shot straight up my arm, scorching through my veins. Ford didn’t pull away. His calloused thumb slid over the back of my hand, pressing the smooth, cool leaf into my palm while his eyes burned down into mine.

I stared at his lips, my mind completely consumed by a sudden desire to feel those rough fingers gripping my waist, dragging me into the leaves, stripping my clothes away, and kissing me until the sky turned clear.

Ford swallowed hard, his throat working as he fought his own battle. His grip tightened on my hand, his thumb stroking my pulse point. I knew he could feel how wildly my heart was thrashing.

“Light’s dead,” he rasped softly, his thumb lingering on my skin for one more agonizing second before he let go. “We need to head down.”

“Okay,” I whispered.

I packed my camera away with shaking hands. When I reached for my backpack, Ford snatched it off the log before I could touch it, slinging one strap over his massive shoulder.

“I can carry that,” I protested. “You don’t have to carry my weight, Burke. And you have your own back to carry.”

A black gear bag sat on the ground. He picked it up.

“You’re going to run your mouth all the way down the trail,” he grunted, turning toward the path. “This way, you won’t be out of breath hauling twenty pounds of camera gear.”

Oh, if only he knew why I was always breathless around him, I thought to myself. I put my camera strap over my shoulder and fell into step behind him.

We walked in silence for a hundred yards before Ford spoke without looking back.

“Tomorrow morning,” he said, his voice cutting through the wind. “Five-thirty.”

I froze on the trail. “What?”

“Five-thirty sharp,” he repeated, pausing to look back at me over his shoulder. “Cold front is pushing these clouds out tonight. Tomorrow morning will be clear sky. High pressure.”

My mouth opened, my heart doing a violent, crazy leap in my chest. “You’re... you’re letting me come back?”

“We’ll get up here earlier, so you’ll have more time.”

I stepped closer to him on the narrow trail, looking right up into his brooding, handsome face. “What if the clouds don’t move out? What if I fail again tomorrow?”

Ford looked down at me, his dark eyes sweeping over me, settling on my mouth with a raw, intense concentration that made my knees go soft.

“Then I guess you’ll be standing at my gate again.”

The implicit promise hung thick in the cold air between us. He was frustrated—not because I hadn’t gotten the photo, but because he couldn’t stop himself from giving me reasons to come back.

And God help me, I wanted to come back.