Page 13 of Rescued By the Mountain Man Cowboy
I surrender, exhausted and, honestly, desperately wanting to be held right now. Even by a stranger. A trusted one, at least.
Do I trust him already?
“Take as long as you need,” his deep rasp quietly speaks at my head. “Slow, deep breaths.”
I listen and follow his gentle guidance as I melt into his frame. My face slowly gravitates to that perfect hollow space under his neck, resting my entire weight on him. His thumb lightly brushes back and forth against my arm, lulling me into peace and momentary safety.
I breathe in his clean, woodsy scent with that hint of spice that sends a tickle through my chest.
Oh, God. Am I nuzzling his neck?
My body stiffens.
His thumb stops.
Slow as molasses, his arms let me go.
God, Anna. Could you be any more pathetic right now?
I scoot back against the headboard, putting distance between us. I keep my gaze on his chest.
“Thank you,” I say after clearing my throat. “Sorry about that.”
Luke stands. “Nothing to apologize for.”
I nod, now staring at the spot on the bed he was just sitting on.
“Dinner will be ready in ten,” he says and doesn’t linger a second more.
Here he was, doing something kind, and I made it weird.Nice going, Anna.
Sighing, I tap the back of my head against the headboard and close my eyes. How long am I stuck here? If this is how it’s going to be the entire time, I might just say, screw it, and hand myself over to Marcus or whatever goon wants me to disappear.
I glance at the open door, smelling something savory. My stomach protests my hunger strike with a grumbling cramp.
Great. Now to make small talk.
Chapter Four
LUKE
The pasta's overcooked.
I can tell before I drain it. The noodles sag off the wooden spoon like they've given up. Store-bought sauce sits warming in a small pot on the back burner, the kind with the red label Mable used to call sinner's sauce because only a sinner would buy it instead of making her own.
Mable would be shaking her head at me right now.
Mable would also be the one cooking, not me. For years, dinner was whatever she put in front of me up at the main house. Pot roast on Sundays. Chicken and dumplings when it rained. A plate handed over with a,you look too thin, Luke Davisand a flick of a dish towel at my shoulder.
A year ago, a phone call from a hospital gutted this ranch. Harold and Mable. Car accident. Gone within an hour of each other. Gabe was three hours away in Eden Ridge when he got the news, and none of us have been the same since.
I haven't eaten at the main house since.
I dump the noodles into the colander. Steam rises up and fogs the window over the sink. Through the glass, the cedars are black against a deep blue. Sun's almost gone. I can hear the creek somewhere past the tree line, full from the late spring melt.
I plate two bowls. Noodles. Sauce. A shake of Parmesan out of the green can that's older than it has any right to be.
Pathetic.
