Page 11 of More than Friends with the Mountain Man

Thomas wasn't a mistake. Thomas was what I did with the part of me that wanted a life in the present tense. But I wanted a life I could bring Walker into, and you can't do that and also be with someone else. Some part of me knew that at the kitchen table in February and wouldn't say it out loud.

I've been so careful, for so long. And Walker has been standing in his hardware store for fifteen years, the most patient man I've ever known, not saying a word — and this morning I paid him back for that patience by leaving before he woke up. No note. No explanation. Just gone, the way I've always been the one who leaves.

I'm not doing that again.

I walk back down and go straight to his store.

He's behind the counter when I push through the door, and he looks up, reads my face, and doesn't say anything. Waits. Which is so specifically him that I feel it land in my sternum.

"I have something to say," I tell him. "The whole thing this time."

"I know."

"Don't rush me."

"Wasn't going to."

I stand in the middle of his store, between the display case and the window with the festival banner still taped crooked in the corner, and I say it plainly, because we've always been plain with each other and this isn't the moment to be anything else.

"I think it's been you this whole time. I think I knew and I was too scared to ruin what we had." I stop, make myself hold his look. "That's why I ran this morning. Not because last night was wrong. Because it was so right it scared the hell out of me, and running is the only thing I know how to do with feelings that big. But Walker — what we had was always this. We just hadn't done anything about it. I don't want to run from you anymore. Not this morning, not ever again."

He's quiet for the count of three. Then he says, "Yeah."

"Yeah? That's all you've got, after I just gave you that whole speech?"

"I've had fifteen years to prepare an answer and it's still yeah." He comes around the counter. "And I'm not letting you apologize your way through this without saying my part. I built a version of tonight where you told me to forget last night ever happened. I was ready to give you that, if that's what you needed. I'd have hated every word of it, but I'd have said it. So don't ever think you're the only one who was scared today."

"We're a mess."

"We're fifteen years late. That's different from a mess."

He crosses the rest of the store to me. I don't move back and he doesn't slow down, and when he kisses me it's different from the festival grounds, different from last night — it's the way you kiss someone when the question is finally, actually settled.

His apartment. His bed. The same off-white ceiling I’ve stared at a hundred times without ever imagining this.

He comes down over me, all heat and solid muscle. I press my hand flat against his chest, holding him still for a moment just so I can look—Walker Danes, thirty-five, laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, the old scar on his left knee, that raw, unguarded expression he only lets me see when something matters. He’s looking at me the same way, drinking in every inch like he’s still trying to believe this is real.

“This is very strange.”

“Very good-strange,” he says, voice low.

“Yes. That.”

He kisses my jaw, my throat, the curve of my shoulder, slow and knowing. He already knows exactly how I like his mouth on my throat; he sucks lightly, then harder, tongue dragging over my pulse until I moan and tilt my head to give him more. His hands settle on my waist, thumbs stroking my skin, and he draws that same helpless sound out of me again on purpose, watching my face with dark satisfaction.

His hand slides down my stomach and stops just above where I’m aching for him.

“You keep making those little sounds,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Drive me fucking crazy.”

“I keep being startled you’re actually here.”

“I’ve always been here. Waiting for you. For this tight little pussy that’s been mine for fifteen years.” He presses two thick fingers into my slick heat, slow and deep, curling them just right. The sudden fullness steals my breath. “Don’t stop,” I manage, hips rolling up to meet his hand.

He laughs and it vibrates through my body. He works me with his fingers, stroking that perfect spot inside while his thumb circles my swollen clit with devastating precision, building me higher and higher until I’m right on the edge, thighs shaking.

Then he stops.

“Walker,” I whine, the sound of pure frustration.