Page 6 of Moonstruck by the Mountain Man

Turns out Darlene knew more than she should have. I did want to be touched.

His hand somehow found its way under the hem of my sweater. His thumb found bare skin.

I told myself it was nothing. It was a reflex. But it was the most intense thing I had felt in years. His palm spanned me like he was measuring whether I would fit against him. My breasts brushed the hard wall of his chest. My nipples went tight and a sweet ache shot straight down, and for one stupid, vivid second I wanted him to haul me in and kiss me in front of June and the whole town.

Or maybe do something more. Because I felt him. Just for a second. The solid line of him against my hip when he pulled me clear. Not all of it. Enough. Enough that my mouth went dry and my panties did the opposite.

He let go quickly, stepped back, and righted the shelf.

The absence of his hand left me cold.

“Thank you.” My voice held a slight quiver and I wasn’t sure how I felt about the fact that he could hear it. Hear how much he had affected me.

“No problem.”

“I’m Autumn, by the way. Autumn Covington.” I didn’t hold out my hand, even though I wanted to feel his touch again.

“Wilder Kincaid.” He put the canvas sign back up without being asked. I watched the hoodie shift over his shoulders and fall just a little further away from his face while he did it and decided I was going to find a reason to keep him talking.

“You came prepared. Boy scout?” I stood there and watched him work. He even straightened my shelf, setting the candles on it at awkward angles.

“Military.” It was a grunted response, but a response.

When he was done, he looked at me once before walking away. I followed him. “So, it was a natural progression from military to search and rescue?”

“Pretty much.” He picked up a crate and started unloading it.

“And Grimm? Was he in the military with you?” We both turned to look at the dog that had followed us over. He sat between us, his head moving between us as if he were listening to the conversation.

“Yeah.”

I had to smile at his one word answer. I finally looked down to see what he was placing on his table. I expected brochures, maybe some pens as giveaways. I was not expecting the beautiful handmade Christmas ornaments.

Or the sign he propped up against the crate he left sitting on the table.

I moved beside him quickly. “You cannot sell hand-carved ornaments with a sign that looks like a hostage note.”

“What?” I couldn’t tell if he was actually frowning now, or it was just a darker version of his natural expression.

“The sign. And you are not giving these away for donations.” I read what he’d written and shook my head. “You’re selling them at a fair price, like every other vendor here.” I walked quickly back to my table, grabbed my calligraphy pen and a sheet of kraft paper, and returned before he could say anything. I made him a price sign and then another one simply asking for donations to the search and rescue program. I propped that up against the bucket he was using.

I picked up an ornament. It was round with the outline of a mountain and pine tree cut into its smooth surface. It was simple and beautiful, and I knew they would sell like hotcakes. The grain of the wood worked with the design instead of against it. “You made these.”

“Yeah.” He hesitated like he wanted to say more. Then, to my surprise he did. “The winter nights can sometimes get long.”

That made me look at him closer. Did he mean he got lonely? I could relate. Sometimes nights felt longer than they should.

“Do you make anything else?”

“Sometimes. Furniture, mostly,” he answered, not looking at me. He straightened a row that did not need straightening. The set of his shoulders said this was the part of being seen he liked least.

“They’re beautiful,” I said, and meant it. “Would you be willing to make some for me? To sell in my shop? I think they’d sell well.” That got his eyes on me. Surprise, quickly locked down.

“I don’t make them for money.”

“I know. You make them because your hands don’t know how to sit still.” I set the ornament down carefully. “That’s not a sales pitch, Wilder. That’s me recognizing good work.”

Before he could say anything else, a couple came up to the table, picking up a trail map from Wilder’s display. The man asked a question and Wilder turned away.