To Claim the Mountain Man

Chapter 12

ISLA MAE

You'll need your strength for what I have in store for you.

Heath's words played again and again in my head as I scooped breakfast into my mouth. Anticipation thrummed through my veins, warming my blood and seeping straight to my center. My thighs pressed together tight beneath the table.

If it were up to me, I'd push my plate and coffee mug aside and ask him more about this...arrangement we'd made. But Heath watched me like a hawk from where he stood by the stove, frying another round of bacon. He insisted that I eat more. He'd been astoundingly attentive, like he was nursing me back to health after a serious illness rather than a foolish hangover.

At first, the thought of food made me sick. Yet, the more I consumed, the more I realized just how much my body craved the hearty meal. I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten so much. Then again, it helped that I had a nice view. From my spot at the kitchen table, I could inconspicuously admire Heath as he worked.

With a spatula in one hand and a towel draped over the shoulder, he could've been plucked straight out of a rom-com movie. His gray sweatpants hung low on his hips, and, sometimes, when he moved a certain direction, they tightened over his groin and left little to the imagination about what hid beneath the cotton. I caught myself staring at it more times than I cared to admit.

"More coffee?" Heath's gruff voice yanked me from my most recent perusal of his backside.

I blinked, wrenching my gaze up. "No thanks. I'm actually pretty full."

He eyed my half-eaten second omelet, and, for a moment, I thought he'd order me to finish it and lick my plate clean. Instead, he seemed content, setting the frying pan aside and wiping away a small mess on the countertop before approaching the table.

He stood tall like a bear but moved like a mountain lion, all grace despite his immense size. When he reached the table, I had to crane my neck to look at him, tucking my hands underneath my thighs.

"Thanks again for breakfast. I already feel a lot better." I added the last part, eager to assure him that he could stop tending to me like a wounded bird.

"Good." He bent to retrieve my plate and turned back to the kitchen sink. My shoulders sagged in momentary disappointment. "Make sure you keep hydrating throughout the afternoon. Do you have any Gatorade?"

I shook my head. "I can't stand sugary drinks."

"Stick with water, then," he replied, all business.

"You sure do take your hangover treatment seriously," I teased, risking a smirk. "I guess you have a plethora of experience?"

He pulled the faucet nozzle from its home and sprayed off the excess egg and bacon from my plate. Although he kept his gaze down, I saw the ghost of a smile on his lips. "You could say that."

I chuckled. "Judging from the number of parties you and my brother threw, I would've thought you'd be immune to alcohol by now."

"I don't drink."

Heath still didn't look at me, but those three words felt stiff. A fraction colder than before.

My smile fell. "Oh," I stated dumbly. "Sorry, I just assumed..."

I racked my brain, trying to sort through every memory I had from watching my brother and his friends party or drink and smoke around a bonfire. I swore I'd seen Heath drinking a beer at least. Could I have been wrong?

"I used to fake it back in high school and college. Would fill up an empty bottle so no one would ask questions." He finally looked up at me as he set the now clean plate aside. His slate eyes were guarded—so different from the heated gaze that turned my insides to molten lava mere minutes ago.