Page 34 of Craved By the Mountain Man

“I remember.”

Two words.

That is all.

Something in my chest goes painfully soft.

People forget things about me all the time.

My father once forgot what year I graduated college.

My mother remembers my dress size better than my favorite color.

Declan remembered things when remembering them was useful.

Gavin remembers my coffee after one weekend two years ago.

I take a sip because speaking suddenly feels risky.

It is perfect.

I focus on the cinnamon roll instead.

Gavin leans against the counter across from me, still shirtless, drinking black coffee like this is a normal morning.

It is impossible to concentrate on pastry under these conditions.

“You could put on a shirt.”

His mug pauses halfway to his mouth.

“Could.”

I wait.

He drinks.

My eyes narrow.

“Are you going to?”

“No.”

My cheeks heat.

There is the faintest shift at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Breakfast?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

His gaze moves over me.

Calm. Thorough. Unmistakable.

“I do.”