Page 12 of Knocked Up By The Mountain Man

"I don't know," I say, clearing my throat. "I guess it just seems like if someone needs to escape reality that badly, that they're willing to make up entire stories about their life that aren't true, then their experience of reality must really suck. Nobody with an easy, happy life feels the need to escape it.”

She's quiet after I say all of this.

Shit. I’ve said too much. Stuck my nose where it doesn't belong. Taken sides, whatever you want to call it. I know better than this.

She probably just wanted me to listen politely, to nod and make uh-huh noises, and not add all of this extra crap. She doesn't want to hear my thoughts about her mom.

We barely know each other. What do I know about her life? About her mother? About her father? About anything, really?

"I never thought about it that way," she says softly after a long while. "Thank you."

"For what?" I ask cluelessly.

She puts a hand on my thigh. A dangerous move for a man behind the wheel who is crazy about her. I'm liable to accidentally steer us right into this mountainside if she moves her fingers even by one inch.

"Thank you for helping me see my mother in a new light," she answers. "I can't say that anybody, not even my therapist, has helped me do that before. You're pretty sensitive.”

"Sensitive?” I repeat the word with distaste, wrinkling my nose.

"Yeah, sensitive,” she laughs. "It's not a bad thing!”

"I don't know about that," I say reluctantly.

She shakes her head.

"I get it. Men like you don't typically want to be labeled as sensitive, right?"

"Men like me?" I ask, pretending not to know what she means by that.

"Yeah. Mountain men. Blue-collar men. Tough guys. You know, back where I'm from, men don't mind being called sensitive. Hell, they wear it as a badge of honor, pretending to be all emotionally intelligent, when in reality they probably just want to get into your pants. They watched a few episodes of Oprah. They read Eat, Pray, Love, and they cherry-picked all of the phrases and concepts that might resonate to the women they're trying to take home from the bar."

"Sounds pretty douchey to me," I say.

Alyssa laughs again, and I grin a little.

"Yeah," she repeats. "I'd say it's ‘pretty douchey’...but you seem like the real deal. It's not fake with you. You really are emotionally intelligent and insightful. It’s…nice.”

I don't know what to say, so now it's my turn to let us fall into silence.

We ascend the mountain, heading back to my cabin, and I notice that she doesn't remove her hand from my thigh.

And even though I know my mind shouldn't be on sex right now, that I've got no right to assume anything's going to happen between us, I can't stop thinking about what's going to happen once we step inside the threshold of my home and are finally alone together in private.

CHAPTER 7

ALYSSA

Tell him why you're really here.

I think it, but I can't seem to compel myself to get the words out. Not during the drive, and not when we pull up in his driveway and get out.

He carries my duffel bag like the gentleman that he is, into the very same cabin where we made the child that he doesn't know about.

I pull my coat tighter around me. I'm worried if I take it off, he's going to notice the slight bump on my lower abdomen and get suspicious.

Probably not. I mean, few people in my life have actually noticed that I'm pregnant. I've managed to keep it a secret from my coworkers and friends.

I wanted to figure out if I was even going to tell Jack about the baby, and decided that if I was going to tell him, he should be the first to know, not the last. It seemed like the right thing to do.