Page 21 of Surrendering To The Forbidden Mountain Man

The laugh that escapes me is the first real one in twenty-four hours. He catches it with his mouth.

Later, after the boxes are carried up from the truck and the shaving kit is on the bathroom shelf and his books are stacked next to mine on the bookshelf, after the letter is placed back in the closet box beside the card and the photograph where all of it belongs, he calls Ben from the kitchen while I make coffee.

"I'm at Mira's. I'm staying." A pause. "Permanently." Another pause. Longer. "Yeah. I know." He clears his throat. "Thanks, Ben."

He hangs up. Looks at me across the kitchen. Six foot three, silver-streaked hair, scars on his hands, eyes red from something he'll never admit to.

"Ben says welcome home." His voice is rough. "And that you're having Thanksgiving at his place. Non-negotiable."

My coffee mug is warm in my hands. His boots are by the door. His flannel is over the desk chair. The box is in the closet with both of our histories inside it, and the top shelf now holds a folded stack of dark thermals, a razor, and a man's decision to stop running.

"Welcome home, Reid."

His mouth curves. Full smile. Second one today.

Epilogue

REID

SIX MONTHS LATER

March in Bear Creek Valley. Snow still on the peaks, mud on the roads, and the first real warmth of the year pushing through the kitchen window at seven in the morning while Mira stands at the stove in my flannel and a pair of underwear, scrambling eggs she'll eat standing up because she opens the clinic at eight and never sits down for breakfast.

Six months. Half a year of her toothbrush next to mine, her scrubs in the hamper, her patient charts spread across the couch on Sunday mornings. My boots by the door beside her hiking boots. My razor on the shelf. My thermals on the top shelf of a closet that used to be hers alone.

The apartment is still too small. We've been talking about finding a house, something with a yard and a kitchen big enough that two people can cook at the same time without colliding at the stove. Hank mentioned a property at the edge of town last week. Two bedrooms, covered porch, fenced lot. Needs work. Everything in this valley needs work.

But I'm good at work. And Mira is good at everything else.

"You're staring," she says without turning around.

"Enjoying the view."

"The view is eggs and bare legs."

"Best view in the valley."

She glances over her shoulder, mouth curving. Her hair is down, tangled from sleep, blonde catching the morning light. The flannel hangs open over a white tank top, and the curve of her hips in those cotton briefs sends a pulse through my gut at 7 AM on a Tuesday because apparently six months has done nothing to dim the effect this woman has on my blood pressure.

"Eat," she says. Slides a plate across the counter. "You have that camera thing at the south gate."

"The camera thing is a wiring fault."

"Which you'll fix in twenty minutes because you fix everything in twenty minutes."

"Fifteen. Jasper's splicing is sloppy."

She pours coffee into my mug, the blue one she bought me at the general store because she said every functional adult needs a mug that isn't from the Army. Her mug is white with a cartoon stethoscope. They sit next to each other on the shelf above the coffeemaker.

Routine. Domestic. The kind of life I spent twenty years telling myself I didn't need because needing things makes you vulnerable, and vulnerability gets people killed. Turns out vulnerability also gets you scrambled eggs and a woman who steals your flannel.

After breakfast, she grabs her bag and her keys. Stops at the door. Reaches up on her toes and kisses my jaw because she can't reach my mouth without me bending down, which I do. The kiss is quick, warm. Everyday. The kind that says I'll see you tonight and don't forget to eat lunch.

"Dinner at Dad's," she says. "Seven."

"I know."

"Don't be early this time. Ben complained."