Page 6 of Consumed By The Forbidden Mountain Man

"It's steak," he says. "Hard to mess up."

"You'd be surprised. My ex-roommate once cooked a ribeye until it was gray. I'm talking cement-gray."

"That's a crime."

"That's Sacramento."

Almost a smile. He keeps catching himself. Every time his mouth starts to curve, he pulls it back. Like he's rationing them.

I pour the wine into the two glasses he brought out. He didn't bring them on his own. I found them in the cabinet when I got the salad. He owns wine glasses but left them in the cabinet until I went inside. Deniability. This man is operating on plausible deniability and it's adorable.

"So." I take a sip. "Tony told me about Claire. About the divorce. I'm sorry."

He cuts his steak without looking up. "Don't be. It was a long time coming."

Tony told me the basics. That Reid built Claire a house from the ground up. That she moved to Reno. That Reid took it like he takes everything, quietly and without asking for help. But hearing the flatness in his voice right now, no self-pity, no elaboration, tells me more than Tony ever did.

"Tony said you moved into his cabin after."

"About three years ago. Selling the house felt too permanent. Living in it felt like punishment." He takes a drink. First one tonight. "What about you? Tony said you quit your job."

"Quit. Fled. Escaped. All accurate."

"Why?"

Nobody's asked me why. Not like that. Not flat and simple, without the follow-up questions about my plan or my savings account or whether I've considered temping while I figure it out.

"Because I spent six years being really good at something I hated. And the panic attacks started happening outside the bathroom." I twirl the wine glass by the stem. "I realized I couldn't remember the last time I did something because I wanted to, not because it was the responsible thing to do."

He watches me over his glass. Those dark eyes are steady, unhurried. He's not filling the silence with reassurance or advice. He's just listening.

"Tony said you're spiraling."

A laugh bursts out of me. "Of course he did."

"Are you?"

"Maybe a little." I lean back in my chair. The October air is cold on my cheeks but the wine is warm in my chest. "I have a notebook full of business ideas. Event planning, marketing consulting, social media management for small businesses. I'm good at all of it. But every time I open the notebook, my brain tells me I'm not qualified to work for myself if I couldn't even survive working for someone else."

Quiet. He looks at the treeline for a long moment, then back at me.

"That's bullshit."

I blink. "What?"

"Surviving a place that made you sick doesn't mean you're not qualified. It means you lasted longer than you should've." He cuts another piece of steak. "You quit because you knew. That's not spiraling. That's common sense."

My entire body goes warm. Not the wine. Not the cold air. This grumpy, quiet, emotionally constipated man just said the most validating thing anyone has told me in six months, delivered between bites of steak with zero fanfare.

"Thank you," I say, softer than I mean to.

He shrugs. "It's true."

We finish dinner. He clears the plates while I pour the last of the wine. When he comes back out, he sits in the chair next to mine and stretches his legs out, ankles crossed. Long legs. Work boots with mud on the soles.

"Festival opens Monday," he says. "Hayrides, bonfires, the whole thing. Runs two weeks."

"I know. Tony's been talking about it for months."