Page 12 of Consumed By The Forbidden Mountain Man

The vibration breaks through the static in my head. I step back. Let go of her waist.

Ivy blinks. Takes a breath. The spell fractures.

I pull the phone out.

Tony:

How's she doing? She being weird?

The timing is so perfect it feels cosmic. Tony, checking in on the sister I was about to kiss at a public bonfire in front of the entire town.

"Everything okay?" Ivy asks. Her voice is steady but her cheeks are flushed. Not from the fire.

"Tony. Checking in." I pocket the phone without responding. "I should walk you back."

"I can walk myself."

"I know you can."

We walk back through town in silence. Up the hill, through the pines. The path is dark and she stumbles once on a root. My hand catches her elbow. She steadies. I let go.

At her cabin, she turns on the porch.

"Thanks for tonight." Quiet. Looking at my chest, not my face.

"Goodnight, Ivy."

She nods. Goes inside. The door clicks shut.

I stand in the dark between our cabins. My hand still warm from her waist. The taste of almost on my tongue.

Tony:

Reid? She good?

Me:

She's fine. Festival was good. Heading to bed.

Tony:

Thanks man. Owe you one.

I stare at that text for a long time.

Then I go inside, close the door, and stand in my kitchen in the dark wondering how the hell I'm going to survive twelve more days of Ivy Caruso.

CHAPTER FOUR

IVY

Four days after the bonfire, neither of us has mentioned it.

We've settled into a pattern. Coffee on his porch at seven. Me bringing two cups from the general store because I wake up buzzing with energy and the walk calms me down. Reid sitting in his chair with sawdust on his jeans, already back from whatever he was building at the Henderson site by six-thirty. Short conversations. Comfortable silences. Him watching me talk with that steady, unhurried focus that makes me forget what I was saying mid-sentence.

We haven't touched since the bonfire. He's careful about it. Keeps his hands in his pockets when we walk. Leaves a full foot of space between us on the porch. When I handed him his coffee this morning, he took it by the lid so our fingers wouldn't brush.

He's drawing a line. I see it. I respect it.