Page 23 of Mountain Grump Protector

That should make me feel safe. And it does.

But at the same time, for reasons that don’t make any sense at all, it only makes me want him more.

Chapter Eight

Cal

She’s been through it.

It doesn’t take a psychologist to see that Willow’s had a tough time, and that more than likely, most of that roughness came courtesy of men who treated her like she was only worth what they could get from her.

I never should have kissed her. I know that.

But that didn’t stop me when I kissed her—twice now—and then backed off, wanting her badly enough that it was becoming a serious fucking problem while also knowing every mixed signal only confused her more.

Willow understood men wanting things from her and taking them. What she didn’t understand was me wanting her while at the same time refusing to take advantage of the situation she was in.

Yet I’d still let myself give in to the pull that had been tugging on me from the very first time I saw her.

No. Not when I saw her. Not quite.

It was when she opened her mouth and stood up to that piece of shit, Ronnie Hatch. When I heard the fire in her voice when she stood up to him. One second, I was sitting at the bar minding my own business, and the next, I was ready to put that asshole through a wall for looking at her sideways.

I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget the rejection and confusion on her face when I broke that kiss.

But, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if I’d become like every man in her life who took what they could from her.

And the next time I kissed her, because there would be a next time, she’d know exactly what it meant. Hell, she’d be the one to ask for it.

Even so, my stance on morality hasn’t made the last three days with her any easier. It’s only gotten worse.

She’s insisted on helping out or earning her keep, or whatever it is that’ll make her feel better about staying at my cabin, so I’ve given her a few tasks to do out in the garage with me. Stupid shit, like tidying up my work bench.

A chore that should be simple, but has somehow turned into an entire reorganization of all my toolboxes, cupboards, and drawers.

At first, I’m pissed when I go to work on my old truck and can’t find anything. The wrenches aren't where they’re supposed to be. Where the hell are the screwdrivers?

Maybe she considers it a mess, but my system of not having any system at all has always worked for me.

But when she walks over in those tiny cutoffs and a sway in her hips to show me exactly where she put everything and why it made sense, I find myself agreeing with her pretty quickly.

Sure, maybe it has something to do with the sassy smile on her face when she points out her reasoning, and maybe it has something to do with how delicious her tits looked in that tight tank top when she bends down to open a newly tidied drawer.

Either way, it doesn’t take me long to adjust to the new, cleaner space.

And to having her here.

I tighten the bolt beneath the hood of the truck and try not to look toward the open bay door where Willow is currently arguing with Murph over a tennis ball.

“You have to let it go,” she tries to tell the dog, who happily trots away from her with the ball still in his mouth. “That’s not how fetch works,” she yells after him, and I can’t help but laugh as she runs after him.

Murph, naturally, looks pleased with the outcome of his new game.

“It looks like he’s got you trained up pretty well,” I say with a smirk as I join her in the yard, wiping my hands on a rag.

She shoots me a glare, and I laugh. “Fetch was never his strong suit,” I tell her. “I think he prefers keep away.”

“Maybe he should have had better training,” she shoots back as she tries to wrestle the ball from his mouth. “I blame his owner.” Triumphant, she holds the ball up overhead and Murph obediently sits at her feet, his tail wagging wildly with the turn of events.