Page 11 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Mountain Man

Here is just Mara. On a mountain. Looking at a man who knows only the truest thing about her.

"Hi." My voice comes out smaller than I want it to.

His eyes move over my face. Slow. Taking in every detail. Then down, and back up, and the ice blue warms into something molten.

"You're shorter than I expected."

A laugh breaks out of me so hard my hand flies to my mouth. "You're ruder in person."

"Been told."

The space between us is fifteen feet of porch steps and gravel. Neither of us moves to close it. Not yet. Because this moment, this first real look, is worth holding for as long as it lasts.

His voice is low. Rough like gravel, quiet like snowfall. "Welcome to Crimson Hollow, Mara."

My name in his mouth. The mountain air in my lungs. Five thousand kilometers of highway behind me and this man, this grumpy, beautiful, brutally honest man, standing on his porch looking at me like I'm the first thing he's wanted in five years.

"Thank you for texting back," I whisper.

The corner of his mouth lifts. Almost. Just enough.

"Come inside. Coffee's on."

CHAPTER FIVE

HOLDEN

She's in my kitchen.

Mara Adekunle is sitting on my counter, legs swinging, drinking coffee from the WORLD'S OKAYEST VET mug while she tells me about a gas station attendant in Sudbury who asked if she was running to or from something.

"Both," she says, wrapping both hands around the ceramic. "I said both. Which felt very dramatic at 4am, but also very accurate."

Five foot four. Deep brown skin. Natural hair in a halo of coils pulled back with a yellow scarf. Gold septum ring catching the morning light. Full mouth. Dimple in her left cheek that only appears when she's genuinely amused, which is apparently most of the time, because everything about this woman is warmth. She's wearing a tank top and cotton shorts from a three day drive, road tired, slightly rumpled, the most alive thing that's been in this cabin in five years.

"You drove for three days."

"Three and a half days. I stopped in Winnipeg."

"To sleep?"

"To panic. Then sleep. Then unpanic. Then drive some more." She sips the coffee. Makes a face. "Holden, this coffee is a crime."

"The machine hates me."

"The machine isn't the problem. These grounds have been sitting in an open bag for what, a month? Two?" She's already off the counter, opening my cabinet, rifling through with the casual efficiency of someone who's been here before. She hasn't. She just moves through spaces like she belongs in them.

Something in my chest cracks wider. That fissure from weeks ago, the one her midnight texts opened, splits clean down the middle watching her root through my kitchen.

"Do you have a French press?"

"No."

"A pour over?"

"Mara. I have a coffee maker that hates me and grounds of an uncertain age. That's the situation."

She turns. Leans against the counter. Looks at me with those brown eyes, the ones I've spent two months imagining without knowing their color. "I'm going to fix your coffee situation. That's not negotiable."