Page 21 of Craved By the Mountain Man

Empty.

My pulse climbs again before I can stop it.

He left.

The thought hits harder than it should.

Which is ridiculous.

Gavin does not owe me twenty-four-hour visual confirmation of his existence just because I broke into his home and emotionally attached myself to his kitchen table.

I move into the main room.

His boots are gone from beside the door.

Okay.

Fine.

Maybe he went outside.

I cross toward the wide window beside the fireplace.

Then stop.

Oh.

Oh, that is unfair.

Gavin is outside on a covered wooden platform running along the side of the cabin.

Shirtless.

The universe, having apparently decided my current problems lack sufficient complexity, has removed his shirt again.

I move closer to the glass before dignity can intervene.

He is training.

Not exercising.

There is a difference.

Exercising is cheerful people wearing matching outfits while music plays and someone counts repetitions.

This is something else.

A heavy bag hangs from a reinforced beam at the far end of the platform. The boards beneath Gavin’s bare feet are still dark from last night’s rain, while the ground beyond them is soaked and muddy.

He moves through a sequence of strikes with quiet precision, his fists hitting hard enough to send the bag swinging.

Nothing is wasted.

No show.

No dramatic grunting.

Just controlled violence delivered by a very large, very sweaty man before breakfast.