Page 21 of Her Forbidden Mountain Man

He looks like every forbidden fantasy a woman could have about disappearing into the mountains.

Not that I have fantasies about him.

I don’t. I absolutely don’t notice the way the muscles in his arms shift beneath the weight of the wood.

His gaze travels from my face to the stove and then to the table.

“You cooked.”

“Very observant.”

“For me?”

I try to sound casual. “There was too much bacon.”

His gray eyes settle on me. Samuel then looks at the plates as though I’ve presented him with something far more significant than eggs and bacon.

He pulls out a chair for me. The gesture is so unexpectedly polite that I hesitate before sitting. Once I’m settled, he takes the chair across from mine.

The kitchen table isn’t large. Our knees nearly touch beneath it. I tuck my legs closer to my chair.

Not because I’m afraid of him. Because I’m afraid I’ll move forward instead.

Samuel takes one bite of the eggs. He chews slowly.

I wait. His eyebrows lift a fraction.

“Well?”

“Good.”

“That’s all?”

“Very good.”

The addition seems to cost him.

I hide my smile behind my coffee mug. For a few minutes, we eat in silence. Mist presses against the windows, obscuring the mountains. The cabin is warm, the fire bright. Yesterday’s jack-o’-lanterns sit beyond the glass, their unlit faces turned toward us.

It feels strangely domestic.

I take a large bite of toast to distract myself.

“Where’s my pumpkin?” I ask.

“Truck.”

“You didn’t leave it at the market?”

“No.”

Of course he didn’t. He carried me out of the truck, but he must have gone back for the pumpkin later. The fact that Samuel took the time to rescue the ugliest gourd in the county shouldn’t mean anything. But it does.

I put down my toast.

“Why did you take me?”

His fork stops halfway to his mouth.