Page 5 of Channeling the Flannel with the Mountain Man

“Good.”

“But I want you to know that anger sometimes masks another feeling.” Paisley glances at my face.

“Did you learn that from a greeting card?” I say, trying to lighten the mood.

“A very expensive greeting card called college.” She smiles, her eyes brimming with mischief.

“You’re twenty-two,” I say, not sure if I’m reminding her or myself.

Her eyebrows rise. “And?”

“I meant that you seem young to be giving me advice.”

“I am young, but I’m also trained, and I’ve spent four years learning how trauma lives in the body.” Her tone stays gentle, which somehow makes me feel worse. “You don’t have to respect me just because I’m your instructor, John. But don’t dismiss me because my life has had fewer birthdays.”

She turns away, but I catch the umbrella before it can follow her, bringing us close under its narrow canopy. “You’re right.”

Paisley blinks. “That sounded painful.”

“It was.”

“Could you say it again? I want to record it.” Paisley holds my gaze, smirking.

“Don’t push your luck,” I tease, then add, “I respect you. You got me out of my head in there. Most people can’t.” I steady myself and focus on what comes next.

“Maybe most people try to drag you out.” Paisley glances at my face.

“What did you do?”

“Left the door open.” She steps closer. There she is again, saying things that should annoy me but somehow slip past my defenses.

The wind blows rain beneath the umbrella, making her shiver. Without thinking, I take off my flannel and wrap it around her shoulders. The shirt is huge on her. Her curls catch on the collar, and seeing her wrapped in something that smells like me makes me want her even more.

“John,” she says softly.

“You’re cold.” I tilt my head, holding onto my composure.

“You’re standing in a T-shirt,” she points out.

“I’m from the mountain,” I shrug, as if that should explain everything.

“Ah, that’s right. That makes you immune to weather and to emotional conversations.”

“Mostly.” I can’t help but smile at her assessment.

She wraps the flannel tightly around her body. “I’ll wash it.”

“Don’t.” The words fly out before I can stop them.

She looks right at me as rain falls against the umbrella, and I imagine leaning in to kiss her, wondering whether she’d melt into me or pull away.

I step back—she’s my instructor. I’m here because I lost my temper. The last thing she needs is a big, angry guy confusing gratitude with attraction.

“Third class.” Paisley breaks the silence and changes the subject.

“Last required one.” I take a quiet breath, wondering why that bothers me.

Something flickers across her face. “Right.” She turns and walks back into her studio, and I can’t help wondering whether she feels the same connection I do.