I reach the top step and my eyes are instantly drawn to the name painted on the white mailbox.
MillieRivers.
I can’t do this. It doesn’t feel right.
I flip around, holding my hands up to pause, and—wouldn’tyou know, Mr. Mountain and his rock-hard chest walk right into them.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Oh my God, I swear, I am not doing this on purpose.”
There’s a rumble that vibrates from his chest that makes me think he’s amused. I look up to find the slightest hint of a grin.
I jerk my hands back like I’ve touched a boiling pot. His eyes drop to them. “Was there a problem?”
Withyourchest?Heavens,no.It’sper—
The house. He means the house.
“No. It’s just—I don’t feel right staying here.” I glance behind me “This place looks lovely, but it’s .?.?. I mean, he’s still .?.?.”
Another sigh. “Have it your way.” He turns on his heel and starts down the steps. “Let’s go.”
I blink but don’t question him yet. This man’s made it very clear he doesn’t slow down for anyone. I catch up first, mindful to keep a decent distance.
He walks past his truck and toward the elevated cabins lined up along the river. I move fast to keep up with his swift steps. I consider asking where we’re going and about my things, but something tells me not to poke the bear right now.
We’ve walked what’s equivalent to a long city block before he slows down and counts the cabins with his index finger before stopping at one. “That one should be open.”
Wait—it’s either the cottage orthis? There’snothingin between?
My stomach twists with apprehension, but I don’t say anything. If it’s this or the cottage, then this will have to do. Hell, it’ll just add to the adventure. Put me in touch with nature. Or spiders, whatever.
Its weather-beaten slats lean slightly to the right. Something that might not be noticeable to locals, but my artistic eye catches almost every imperfection.
Something tells me I’m about to have a field day of imperfections.
I pause at the stoop, warily eyeing the steps. But Wilder jogs up like it’s nothing. Like they’re not about to crack at the slightest gust of wind.
He pulls out a set of keys, not bothering to look back at me as he unlocks the door. “You comin’?”
I swallow, putting my hand on the wooden rail. “Right behind ya—a safe, crash-free distance behind.”
Rolling his eyes, he holds the door open for me, and I know why. The jerk is waiting to see my reaction as I walk in.
Well,twocanplaythisgame.
I don’t linger at the entrance. Nor pay any mind to the lone window on the front that has a crack running through it. I march right in.
I keep my eyes low, not wanting to give away too much. The wooden planks seem to be in good condition, not warped or anything. And the creaks they make with each step are faint, so there’s that.
It’s dim, the overhead light casting a yellowish glow on the small space. There’s a twin bed, dresser, armchair and a kitchenette. It smells all right, I suppose. Or maybe I lost my sense of smell earlier, back at the barn?
“This is it,” Wilder says gruffly, but I don’t miss the faint smirk. “Will it do?”
“Well, it’s not the Ritz, I’ll admit,” I say, showing good faith by tossing my backpack on the bed—with sheets looking older than me.
He laughs. He actually laughs. It’s deep and gravelly, and it makes my stomach fizz. Even if it is at my expense.
The. Absolute. Nerve.
