Page 11 of Tempted By The Forbidden Mountain Man

I roll to my side, pull her against me. She tucks her face into my neck. Warm breath against my pulse. Her hand rests on my chest, right over my heart, fingers spread.

"We're in trouble." She says it into my skin, muffled, almost smiling.

"Yeah." I press my mouth to the top of her head. "We really are."

The moon moves across the window. The mountain holds its silence. And for the first time in longer than I can remember, the silence doesn't feel empty.

It feels like exactly where I'm supposed to be.

CHAPTER FOUR

SLOANE

Saturday morning starts with his arm around my waist, his chest warm against my back, mountain light coming through the cabin window in pale gold stripes. For about twelve seconds, everything is perfect.

Then my brain boots up.

The event. Day two. Gates open in three hours. Sage's cooking demonstration at noon. The guided trail hike at two. Evening bonfire program at seven. My phone has fourteen unread messages, most from vendors confirming deliveries, two from Talia asking about photo ops for social media.

And I am lying naked in bed with my security lead.

Dante's breathing is slow, steady. Still asleep. His arm tightens around me when I shift, an unconscious pull that tucks me closer against him. The tattoo on his forearm rests against my stomach, script I couldn't read in the dark last night. In the morning light, I can make out two words. Siempre presente. Always present.

I close my eyes. Let myself have ten more seconds of his heartbeat against my shoulder blade, his breath warm at the back of my neck. Ten seconds of pretending I'm a woman who can have this without it costing something.

Then I slide out from under his arm. Gather my clothes from the floor. Dress in the bathroom with the door shut.

The woman in the mirror looks like someone who had a very good night and is about to have a very bad morning. Hair wrecked from his hands. A faint mark on my collarbone from his mouth. My lips are swollen. Everything below my waist aches in a way that makes standing upright take effort.

Fix the hair. Smooth the blouse. Button every button. The mirror version of me starts looking professional again, piece by piece, until the only thing left is the flush in my cheeks that won't fade because my body hasn't gotten the memo that this is over.

When I come out of the bathroom, he's awake. Sitting on the edge of the bed, pants on, henley in his hands. Watching me with those dark eyes that see too much.

"Morning."

"Morning." I pick up my clipboard from the desk. Check my phone. Fourteen messages becomes seventeen. "I need to get to the venue. The cooking demo setup starts at nine."

"Sloane."

My name in his mouth stops me at the door. The same way it stopped me on the path last night. I don't turn around because if I look at him sitting on the edge of my bed, shirtless, hair messed from sleep, looking at me with that quiet intensity, I am going to climb back into that bed and destroy the only career opportunity I have.

"Last night was..." I start.

"If you say 'a mistake,' we're going to have a problem." His voice is calm. Direct. Zero hesitation.

"It was incredible. And it can't happen again." My hand tightens on the door handle. "I have a job to do. So do you."

Silence. Then the rustle of fabric as he pulls the henley over his head. Boots hitting the floor, one then the other.

"Copy that."

Two words. Clean, military, no emotion attached. The sound of a man who has practiced making his feelings disappear on command. The door is open. I'm through it. The cold mountain air slaps my face, and I walk to the lodge without looking back.

The morning is brutal. Not because anything goes wrong. Everything goes right, beautifully right, and every seamless transition reminds me that this event is working. Sage's cooking demonstration draws forty people to the outdoor kitchen setup. She's in her element, talking about mountain herbs, making jokes, pulling a guest up to help her flip a Jamaican patty while the crowd laughs.

From the north entrance, I can see Dante at his post. Radio on his hip. Arms crossed. Scanning the crowd with professional focus. He doesn't look at me. Not once.

Which is what I asked for.