Page 20 of Consumed By The Forbidden Mountain Man

Her jaw tightens. She blinks fast. Once. Twice.

"A step back."

"Cool down. Figure out how to handle this."

"Handle this." She laughs. Short, sharp. Nothing funny about it. "You're not handling a construction project, Reid. You're standing on your porch telling the woman who's been sleeping in your bed that you need to take a step back because her brother's coming to town."

"It's more complicated than that."

"It's really not."

Quiet. The pines are still. A bird calls somewhere up the ridge, distant, oblivious.

"I need to think," I say.

The worst part is her face. She doesn't yell. Doesn't slam anything. The hurt pulls inward, her shoulders drawing in, the openness shutting down behind her eyes.

"Okay," she says. Steady. Controlled. "Think all you want."

She turns and walks off the porch. Through the pines. Her bare feet on the cold ground. My henley disappearing between the trees.

Her cabin door closes. Not a slam. Just a click.

I stand on the porch. The second coffee cup from yesterday is still on the railing. Cold. She was going to bring me fresh ones. She brings them every morning.

Not tomorrow.

The day is bad.

I drive to the Henderson job and work for nine hours without stopping. Frame a wall. Tear it out. Frame it again because the first time was crooked and I don't do crooked work, but I couldn't focus long enough to get it right.

My crew notices. They don't say anything. Nobody says anything to Reid Castellano when he's in a mood, which is most of the time, but today is different. Today the mood has teeth.

I eat a sandwich in my truck at noon, parked at the jobsite, staring at my phone. No texts from Ivy. The last message in our thread is from yesterday morning.

Ivy:

Coffee's on your porch. I'm going to the general store. Need anything?

Me:

I'm good. Thanks.

Ivy:

That's your way of saying you love the coffee. I'm learning your language.

Her language. She has a language for me. Had a language. Past tense.

I put the phone in the glove box and go back to framing.

At five o'clock, I drive home. Park in front of the cabin. Her car is still next to her cabin. She hasn't left.

The relief of that is staggering. And pathetic. I told her to step back. I practically pushed her out the door. Now I'm grateful she didn't drive away.

Claire drove away. Packed up and left in a U-Haul while I stood in the driveway of the house I built for us, watching her taillights disappear down the mountain road. She didn't look back. I know because I stood there until the dust settled.

That's what I'm afraid of. Not Tony. Not the age gap. Not the fact that his sister is sleeping in my bed.