To Claim the Mountain Man

Chapter 9

ISLA MAE

"Is it hot in here? I feel like it's really hot in here," I swayed forward to turn the air vent in my direction. The smell of old truck and pine blasted me in the face, and I grinned.

A deep chuckle rumbled from the driver's seat, and goosebumps that had nothing to do with the AC dusted my forearms.

"No, that would be the alcohol," Heath teased, every word alight with amusement.

He kept his eyes on the road, one hand on the steering wheel and the other elbow braced against the door, but a smile curled on his lips. And goodness, he looked handsome.

More handsome than ever, ever, ever. Then again, maybe that was the alcohol, too.

"Mmm." I hummed and rested my forehead against the window, savoring the chill of the glass against my flushed skin. "I think I like alcohol. A lot."

"We'll see if you're saying that tomorrow."

"You mean a hangover," I pointed out. "Even if I am hangover-ed—" That word didn't sound right, but I kept talking anyway, rolling my forehead back and forth on the cool window. "I won't mind. It'll be worth it 'cause I had fun. And I met a boy, and I'm pretty sure he liked me--"

"Isla," Heath barked abrasively, interrupting my musings.

Only then did I realize that we'd stopped moving.

Outside, the floodlights of our neighboring cabins illuminated an otherwise pitch-black forest. More than once over the last two nights, I'd been frightened by some animal or creepy-crawly thing moving through that darkness. Otherwise, I'd adjusted to my new little home.

"Home," I cooed, smiling at my decrepit cabin. "I missed it!"

With too many shots of liquor in my bloodstream, I thought I'd never seen a more beautiful house. Except, maybe, the gorgeously maintained, much larger cabin sitting right next door.

Suddenly drawn to the idea of sweatpants and my bed like the call of a siren, I unbuckled my seatbelt and pushed open the truck door. With the utmost confidence in my heels, I swung my legs over the side of the seat and dropped down to the ground.

And dropped and dropped.

"Oof!" I exclaimed, a muted sense of pain ricocheting from my tailbone up my spine. I'd fallen right on my ass in the dirt.

"Isla!" Heavy footsteps pounded against the earth, and, when I looked up again, Heath jogged around the truck to reach me. "Jesus, baby. You okay?"

Baby. I almost liked it as much as sweetheart. Both nicknames sent a jolt of heat straight to my core.

"My foot must've gotten caught on something," I grumbled, trying—and struggling—to push myself up from the ground.

"Yeah," Heath snorted under his breath. "A bottle of tequila."

As I was deciphering the thick coat of sarcasm covering his words, my feet were suddenly yanked from the ground. I yelped my surprise, head spinning at the sudden shift in movement, but the disorientation faded the moment Heath settled my body against his chest.

He held me like a baby, one arm behind my back, the other cradling my knees. Any remnants of pain in my tailbone were forgotten as my body rocked steadily in his arms. He carried me toward his cabin, his gravel sidewalk crunching with—

Wait.

His cabin?

"You're going the wrong way!" My fingers found his soft cotton t-shirt for the second time that evening, fisting the fabric and tugging, as if that might get his attention.