Page 16 of Her Mountain Man Protector

"Oakley."

"See. You can do it. Use it when you tell me you're getting in the bed."

The pull of her is a raw, inconvenient heat under my sternum, the same heavy thing that started on the ridge when she crashed into me talking, and it has only gotten worse since the diner booth and the truck with her knee parked against mine. I can hold a perimeter. I can hold a pistol. Holding the line on a mattress while she looks at me like that is a different kind of work, and I'm not convinced I'm qualified.

"You talk in your sleep," I say, because I need something that isn't her mouth.

"You don't know that."

"You talk when you're awake. Probability is on my side."

"Then suffer horizontally. At least you'll be warm."

I drag a hand over my face and go to the windows instead of answering, because answering her when she's winning makes me want to put my mouth on the win. Outside, the last of the afternoon is thinning into that blue, wet hour the falls wear so well. I check the sightlines. I check the deck latch. I check the window even though I already did.

Oakley opens cupboards with the unearned confidence of a woman who has decided this house belongs to her for the night. "Pasta. Coffee that isn't instant. Alden's niece eats well. Or Marin shops like a woman who refuses to be judged by a pantry. Either way I'm cooking, because if I leave dinner to you we'll have trail mix and a lecture."

"I can cook."

"Really?" She glances at me over her shoulder. “You can cook?”

"When I'm hungry. I cook soup from a can. Beef jerky. Protein bars."

"Heating up soup isn’t cooking."

“Sure it is.”

She raises a brow. “I’ll cook.”

She cooks. I pretend to ignore her and fail, because ignoring Oakley Vega is a skill I haven't built and don't expect to build by dark. She moves through Alden's kitchen with restless, luminous energy, hair falling out of whatever attempt she made to tame it, sleeves pushed up, talking at the pasta like the pasta started it. I think about the grocery store we’ll have to hit in the next day or two.

I grab my phone, stepping onto the back deck.

Alden picks up on the first ring. "You're in."

"We're in. House is clean. Gate's shut. She's cooking like she pays rent."

"Let her. Rowe does the same thing when she's nervous. How is she?"

I look through the glass. Oakley’s tasting sauce off a wooden spoon with her whole face, triumphant and unguarded for one blistering second before she remembers I exist and schools it back into combat. "Loud. Alive. Refusing the floor plan I issued."

"Good. Alive is the brief. Marin already pulled a payment that hit a Woodbridge hardware account this morning. Cashier described a man who matches your diner window guy. Local contract, short money. Helix is renting eyes, not moving a team through Main Street in daylight. That buys you the night. Use it."

"And my father?"

Alden is quiet long enough that I hear the mill behind him, some distant clang from the turbine hall. "Nothing solid. The dock name she kept is going to take more than an afternoon. I'll have more at first light. Sleep, Colt. That's an order from a friend who still signs your on-call checks."

"Copy."

I go back in. The kitchen is warm from the stove. She has two bowls on the table and an expression that dares me to complain about carbohydrates.

"Wash your hands, mountain man."

I wash. I sit. I eat because she cooked and because arguing about the bed on an empty stomach will go worse for me. The food is good. I don't tell her that right away. She waits, eyebrows up, fork paused.

"It's fine," I say.

"It's excellent. You can admit it's excellent. It won't tarnish the flannel."