To Claim the Mountain Man

Chapter 11

HEATH

The sizzle of grease in the frying pan rose above the whisper of water rushing through the pipes in the bathroom. I flipped an omelet in the pan, but every ounce of my attention rested on the young woman a room away.

I strained to hear every one of Isla's footsteps. Every time she turned the faucet on and off, or opened the cupboard holding my toothpaste, floss, and spare condoms. It felt strangely intimate, allowing my best friend's little sister to sort through my personal belongings after a night spent in my bed.

Then again, it was no more intimate than carrying her thin, lithe body into my house to begin with. Feeling her lips torture my neck, her fingers curling in my hair. Then holding her upright while she heaved and emptied the poison in her stomach. Peeling the soiled clothing from her body...

I'd lied.

I did peek. I risked a glance at her beautiful body as I placed her beneath the warm stream in my shower. And, Christ, it nearly brought me to my knees.

Of course, I didn't allow myself the chance to fully study her—to appreciate every subtle curve and dip. But I saw enough in those quick glances. Small, rosy nipples atop pert breasts. Milky skin covering her slim abdomen. Soft blonde curls obscuring her sex.

I rinsed her off, clothed her in the first t-shirt I could find, placed her in my bed, and got the hell out after that. It took a long, cold shower and two rounds of fisting my cock for the desire to slip away.

Smokey's claws clicked against the hardwood as he lazily padded toward the stove, taking a seat by my legs and silently begging for a scrap. Five years ago, I would've told him to scram. Now, in his old age, I couldn't resist dropping a sizeable chunk on the ground. He snuffled and slobbered and engulfed it whole.

"Smells good in here."

I turned away from the stove to find Isla standing in the kitchen doorway. She wore the same white t-shirt that swallowed her whole, though she'd added a pair of gray cotton boxers to the mix. With her honey-blonde locks damp from a shower and a make-up free face, she seemed refreshed.

And, fuck, I liked the way she looked in my clothes—in my kitchen on a Saturday morning.

So did Smokey, it seemed. The old dog's mouth peeled open in a toothy grin, and he trotted over to greet her.

"Grease is the cure to every hangover."

She scratched Smokey behind the ears. "I wouldn't know. I haven't been hungover since—" she paused, as if catching herself in the act of making a mistake. "In years," she amended.

I cocked a brow. "They didn't party at Columbia?"

"I didn't party at Columbia." She chuckled, stepping further into the kitchen. "I spent most nights writing."

Her admission didn't surprise me, but pity swept through me, nonetheless.

"Do you regret it?" I asked before I could stop myself.

College was supposed to be the best four years of a person's life. A time to get drunk on the weekends, fall in and out of love, roll out of bed five minutes before class. It was a time to make mistakes, try to fix them, and find yourself along the way. And, as far as I could tell, Isla hadn't done any of that.

I hadn't either, but that hadn't been my choice. At eighteen, I would've given anything to get the hell away from Laurel Peak and the ropes binding me to it.

She shrugged, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her t-shirt again. "At the time, I thought I was doing what was best for myself." A sigh. "Now I'm not so sure. I feel like I'm playing catch-up on life."