Page 7 of Frosty Mountain Man

“You cook a better breakfast than I expected from a man who slammed a door in my face.”

“Low bar.”

“You’d be surprised how many men can’t even clear it.”

He didn’t say anything, just studied me with that broody look of his.

“You really should look at the contract. Your grandfather would like your opinion.”

He didn’t say anything, just turned to the sink and started washing the few dishes he’d used to fix my food.

My thoughts turned to my boss. I didn’t know exactly what had been happening with him, just that he hadn’t been himself lately.

Looking at Harrison’s face, I wondered if the man knew what was going on. And more importantly, would he care? I knew the basics of his story. He’d abruptly walked away from his family’s business about ten years ago, burying himself in the mountains of Montana.

I ate the last of the eggs and got up, carrying my plate and silverware to the sink. Without asking, or being told, I picked up a dishtowel and started drying them.

Glancing at the clock, I realized it was later than I thought. Was it too early to retreat with some dignity intact?

But seeing the set of his jaw, I realized that was exactly what I needed to do. He hadn’t invited me here and certainly hadn’t expected to put up with an overnight guest. “Do you think the snow will have melted off by morning?”

“It should. The temperature’s not much below freezing. Snow this early in the season usually doesn’t last.” He took the dishtowel from my hand, careful not to touch me again. Which I noticed. Which I hated that I noticed. “Guest room’s ready. Try to sleep.”

“Goodnight, Harrison.” I turned to go when the too-long hem of his sweatpants caught under my bare heel.

The floor tilted. I pitched forward with an undignified sound somewhere between a gasp and a curse. His arm banded around my waist before I’d finished falling.

“Careful,” he said, low, right next to my ear.

“Your pants are trying to kill me.” I should have stepped away. His arm was still around me, warm and solid, and I could feel every place his chest pressed against my back. I turned my head instead and found his face closer than I’d expected. His jaw was a rough line I could have traced with my finger if I’d been the kind of woman who did reckless things.

I’d never been that kind of woman. Standing there with his arm still around my waist, I was starting to resent that about myself.

“Goodnight, Harrison,” I said again, quieter this time, looking up at him.

For a second he didn’t let go, his eyes moving over my face. I took a page out of his book and closed off my expression before he saw too much. I knew I was treading on dangerous ground, and I’d only known this man for a few hours. I sent up a prayer for a warm overnight gale to engulf the mountain and melt away the snow.

His arm finally loosened, and he stepped back, putting careful space between us again. “Goodnight, Elle.”

I walked down the hall in his too-big clothes, heart still beating too fast, and lay in the dark of the guest room wondering, in a completely unhelpful and entirely unwanted way, what he’d taste like.

Frosty Mountain Man. I’d started calling him that in my head when the door had shut in my face. Except frosty men weren’t supposed to make a woman’s pulse do this. And ones like Harrison Cole weren’t supposed to be worth the trouble of wanting.

CHAPTER FOUR

Harrison

I woke before dawn already irritated. And I knew exactly why. I’d dreamt of a woman dressed in white, lost and shivering in the cold

It wasn’t my ex.

It was her.

Elle.

The woman who’d invaded my space and my dream.

I convinced myself the dream had come from catching her the night before — the weight of her against my arm. It was not from the fact that I had almost, almost drew her closed and kissed her.