Page 5 of Moonstruck by the Mountain Man

Autumn

Grimm nearly knocked me over.

I was crouched behind my table stacking black-cat soap when a hundred and fifty pounds of dog leaned into me sideways. I went down on one hip into a tower of Full Moon bath salt boxes, laughing before I’d even finished falling.

“You,” I said, scratching behind one enormous ear. “Do you have zero respect for personal space or what?”

“He has zero respect for a lot of things,” June said, appearing at my shoulder with a clipboard and an expression even more harried than last night. “That’s Grimm. He belongs to Wilder Kincaid.”

So that was the man’s name. I didn’t tell June I’d already met him in the dark. I didn’t know why I kept that a secret. I only knew I wanted it to stay mine for now.

“Who?” I asked, as innocently as I could.

“He runs search and rescue. Lives up the mountain and doesn’t come down for anything but supplies and that dog’s vet appointments.” She looked past me. “And he’s your neighbor for the festival.”

That made me look up quickly. He was setting up a folding table two spaces down with careful, economical motion. This morning he wore a uniform. Dark SAR pants. Boots that looked lived in. A navy jacket worn open over the same charcoal hoodie from the alley, hood up.

Every time he bent to set a crate, the hood slipped.

I kept getting him in pieces.

The scar first — from cheek to jaw, stark in daylight, worse and better than the glimpse in the alley. Then the mouth. Then a stripe of throat when he turned his head to track his dog. And his hands. God, his hands. Big. Nicked. Would he be careful touching a woman? Or would he be rough? Dominating?

Something rolled through me, slow and shameless.

“Everybody calls him the Ghost of Lone Mountain,” June said.

I had heard the story. Recluse on the mountain who owned a hellhound. The story parents told when they wanted children to come inside after dark.

I looked at Grimm. I looked at the man. I could see how the name had started.

“He doesn’t strike me as a ghost,” I said. “More like a man who wants to be left alone.” I scratched Grimm’s ear. “Doesn’t he, boy?”

The dog leaned into me as if in agreement.

Someone called June away and I watched Wilder for another minute — hood tugged forward every time a cluster of people passed, jaw tight, body angled so the scar faced away without ever quite looking like he was hiding. Then I went over.

“You could’ve mentioned the bear,” I said, once I was close enough that he had to look up.

He straightened to his full, absurd height. The hood shadowed his eyes but I still felt that steady gaze on me. Something made me want to step closer.

“There was a bear.”

“Right. See, that sentence would have taken you one second longer than don’t walk back here alone at night, and it would have actually been useful.”

There was a beat of silence. “You’re welcome for not getting mauled.”

That startled a laugh out of me. For a second his gaze stayed on my face like the sound of it had caught him off guard too. The wind shoved at his hood. It slid back another inch. Morning light found the whole scar, the pull of it down into the collar of the hoodie, and my fingers itched with a wave of want that embarrassed me.

I wanted to touch it. I wanted to put my mouth on the place the hood still hid. I wanted to find out if he’d let me.

Then another strong gust came down the street hard enough to snap my canvas sign like a whip. It hit the three-tier wooden rack I’d built out of reclaimed barn wood, which tipped forward onto the pumpkin chai candles I had thankfully not yet put on display.

I’d been too distracted by the Ghost’s appearance.

Before I could move, he was already there, grabbing the canvas before it could do any more damage. I hurried back to my booth and tripped over my own feet, which was nothing new. What was new was not hitting the ground.

One of Wilder’s large hands landed at my waist, warm and wide. The next thing I knew I was being pulled close to the broad chest that had, I had to admit, starred in a dream or two last night.