Page 27 of Autumn With The Grumpy Mountain Man

“Somebody should.” She wrapped her arms around my waist and leaned into me. “But then we wouldn’t have ten minutes.”

We spent them well.

The shower barely fit one person, so we were pressed together under the water, scrubbing orange off each other’s skin and laughing when the paint wouldn’t come out of her hair. I washed it for her. She stood with her eyes closed and her head tipped back against my shoulder and let me, and I don’t think I’d ever done anything with that much care in my life.

Afterward we fell back into the narrow bed, damp and warm. She curled against my side with her head on my shoulder. In five minutes she was asleep.

I lay awake.

The lamp was still on. I could hear the wind outside, and the creek, and her slow breathing against my neck. I could feel her heartbeat where her chest pressed against my side.

And I started thinking about next October.

I thought about her at the paint table, sneaking smiley faces onto the inside of the ribs where nobody would see them but me. I thought about her sitting at my supper table, in the chair closest to the stove because she was always cold. I thought about a year of mornings, her coming down the stairs at seven to say good morning and me saying it back, every single time.

I’d built a quiet, solitary life up on this mountain. I’d been sure that was what I wanted.

I lay there with her asleep on my chest and pictured a life with her in it. I couldn’t stop myself from imagining having her here as we moved through the seasons.

I was in serious trouble.

Chapter Nine

Hazel

“Good morning,” Harper said, and then her eyes landed on my shirt and she raised an eyebrow.

I glanced down at myself. It had been cold when we left the cabin, and I’d grabbed the warmest thing within reach on my way out the door. A gray-and-green flannel, much too big, with the sleeves rolled up four times.

His flannel. The one he’d probably worn into town the last time we were here and who knew how many times before that.

Oh no.

“Morning,” Shepherd said beside me, oblivious.

It had been a week since the paint fight. One whole week of waking up with his arm heavy across my waist, and walking up the hill every evening for supper at his table, and walking back down with him in the dark, or not walking back down at all. My toothbrush was in a cup by his sink now.

We hadn’t told anybody. Dr. Mills had sent me up the mountain to learn from him, and I didn’t want the whole town wondering what else I was learning. And Shepherd would sooner walk into the river than have Ridgewood Falls discussing his love life over cinnamon rolls.

Walt was at his table by the window. He lowered his newspaper an inch to glance at the two of us before going back to reading.

I ordered my latte and kept my eyes on the pastry case. Shepherd stood at the counter a careful foot away from me, waiting for his coffee.

Then he looked down at me and frowned.

“You’ve got paint,” he said.

Before I could ask where, he reached over and brushed his thumb behind my ear, slowly, where a fleck of orange had survived my morning shower. His fingers slid down along my jaw as he took his hand away.

It was the gentlest thing. He didn’t even think about it. I could tell, because I watched him realize what he’d done about two seconds too late.

The bakery went quiet.

Walt lowered his newspaper again. All the way, this time.

Shepherd cleared his throat. His ears had gone red. He picked up the stack of newspapers Harper had left for him on the counter, said “I’ll be in the truck,” and walked out with the bell jangling behind him.

I stood there with my face on fire.