Page 5 of Guarded By the Mountain Man

“Juliette.”

Holt’s hands stop moving on the stove and he turns to look at me.

I clear my throat. “My name is Juliette. I mean, that’s my real name.”

He repeats my name, as if he’s trying it out for size. “Juliette.”

“Do you want me to leave?” I don’t drop my gaze, even though looking at him for this long is starting to make my core heat up.

“No,” he says. Fast, without thinking.

Six thumps his tail twice against the floor as if the matter is settled.

Chapter Four

HOLT

Juliette’s wearing my work shirt, sitting beside me as we ride into town. I've worn that old shirt fifty times and never thought twice about it. But now it's rolled up at her wrists and open at her throat, revealing her creamy skin and freckles. I can't look at the road for more than ten seconds without my eyes flicking back to her like a magnet. She's got the window cracked despite the cold, one hand riding the wind outside, while Six is sprawled across the bench with his head in her lap.

Fifteen years between us. When she was learning to drive I was already standing outside hotel suites in a suit and an earpiece. There's a whole lifetime between us. Which means I have no business wanting to reach across the seat and put my hand over hers.

“Our first stop is the market,” I say, to distract myself. “You need clothes and some boots too, if they've got your size. It gets muddy and your sneakers won’t cut it.”

“Good. I have a budget.”

“It’s good you’re paying cash. No paper trail, which is smarter than a few professionals I've known. Let’s keep it that way.” She turns and looks at me when I say that, raising one pretty eyebrow, but doesn’t ask me any questions. We’re both still careful with each other, not saying what we want to out loud.

Wildwood Market has a clothing aisle; work jeans, t-shirts and a rack of canvas jackets. Juliette goes through it like she's on a timer, no dithering, and comes out with two pairs of jeans, three shirts and a gray thermal. She checks every price tag. That girl was wearing a wedding dress that could pay my property taxes, but she’s squinting at the tag on a ten-dollar shirt.

While she's in the changing room, I put a women’s rain jacket and two pairs of socks on the counter and pay for them. She notices when she comes out and opens her mouth to argue with me.

I shake my head. “Rain's forecast all week. And if you want to fight about socks, we can do it in the truck.”

She gives me a little half-smile and nods. There's a look on her face I can't place as she hugs the jacket to her chest.

Latte Da! is mid-disaster when we come through the door.

It smells like scorched sugar, and there's a line four deep at the counter with nobody behind the register. Nora's voice carries out of the kitchen doorway, using the kind of language that would cost her a dollar a pop in the church swear jar.

“Holt Newell, thank the Lord. Tell me you can bake.”

“Not unless you want things burnt to order.”

“Then you're of no use to me, hon. The O'Connor party ordered four dozen cinnamon rolls and a sheet cake for tonight, Mayla's over in High Vale buying pregnancy clothes, and my buttercream has split twice.”

Beside me, Juliette’s looking through the kitchen doorway at the wreckage. She takes in the mixer bowl of curdled frosting and there's a hunger in her face I haven't seen since I met her.

“Your butter was too cold… for the buttercream. It's not broken, it just needs heating up.”

Nora stops with a customer's change in her hand. “Who's this, then?”

“Juliette,” she says, before I can invent anything. “I'm staying with Holt while my car gets fixed. May I?”

Nora waves her through the doorway.

What happens next is like magic. Juliette rolls up her sleeves and then washes her hands meticulously. She takes the bowl of curdled buttercream over the gas burner, and in a few minutes of low heat and hard whipping it turns to silk. Then she checks the rolls and presses one with a fingertip. Frowning, she tells Nora the proof box is too warm and she's got maybe twenty minutes before the whole batch is wasted.

Suddenly, the two of them are moving around that kitchen like they've worked together for years. I'm standing by the register holding a rain jacket and a bag of socks, unable to take my eyes off her.