Page 2 of Craved By the Mountain Man

Usually, I handle it by sending increasingly obnoxious texts until he resurfaces and tells me to stop threatening to put his face on missing-person milk cartons.

This week feels like a particularly bad time for my only dependable family member to vanish off the face of the earth.

The road curves sharply, and I slow, leaning toward the windshield as though those extra four inches will help me see through the rain.

“Come on.”

My little hatchback gives a suspicious rattle.

“Oh, absolutely not.”

Another rattle follows.

“You have one job.”

The engine offers no reassurance.

“You get me up the mountain, and I will buy you premium gas for two weeks.”

Nothing.

“An entire month.”

The rattle stops.

I nod. “Good choice.”

I have officially reached the bargaining-with-machinery stage of emotional collapse.

Probably healthier than calling Declan.

I tried that exactly once.

The number was disconnected.

Not surprising.

Declan never did anything dramatically enough to make me suspicious. That would have required the universe to provide useful foreshadowing.

He was charming, attentive, interested in my work. He remembered how I took my coffee, complimented my illustrations, and knew exactly how to make criticism sound concerned.

You’re wearing that?

Maybe something darker would be more flattering.

I love your curves. You’re just so sensitive about them.

You know I’m attracted to you, right?

That last one should have bothered me more.

At the time, I heard reassurance.

Now I hear a man reminding me I should be grateful.

My fingers tighten around the steering wheel.

I hate that he got into my head. I hate more that he found things already living there.