Page 14 of Maple Kissed by the Mountain Man

“You’re surprisingly comfortable for a man made of granite.”

I turned my head. Her face was inches from mine, her brown eyes completely dark, staring directly at my lips.

“Down.”

“Bossy.”

Slowly, agonizingly, her legs unclasped from my waist.

She slid down the length of my back, her hips, belly and chest dragging over my body until her boots touched the dirt.

The friction nearly tore a groan out of my throat. I took three fast steps away from her before my body betrayed me completely, turning toward the high canopy to give my body time to settle.

“Fifteen minutes,” I grunted, heading up the final ridge.

She straightened, jogging to keep up. “I get more than fifteen.”

“You argued at the gate.”

“That shouldn’t deduct from my photography time,” she pointed out reasonably. Unfortunately, I was not in a reasonable mood.

“It counts.”

“You carried me across a river.”

“It was a creek, but that counts, too.”

She almost growled in frustration. “Then shut up and show me the trees, Burke.”

We hit the main grove just as the morning sun broke over the mountain peak, flooding the canopy with blinding, golden light.

Maggie completely forgot about me.

She dropped her pack into the dirt, pulled out her camera, and practically sprinted toward the old-growth maples. For the next ten minutes, she was a force of nature—moving from tree to tree, dropping to her knees in the wet leaves, swapping lenses with lightning speed, muttering fiercely to herself.

I stood back, resting my hands on my hips, and watched her work.

The playful, teasing woman who’d spent weeks yapping at my gate was completely gone. In her place was an artist—focused, fierce, and brilliant. She studied every ray of light. She waited for the wind to drop before clicking the shutter, frowning at the digital display, and adjusting her position.

Nothing satisfied her.

The mountain breeze picked up, stirring the upper branches and sending ripples through the air. Shadows danced across the crimson canopy, breaking up the steady light.

Maggie checked another photo and let out a dark curse. “No.”

“You have three minutes,” I called out.

“You are not going to hold me to that timeline, Burke. The wind is not cooperating, just like you.”

I looked up at the sky and frowned. Back behind the mountain, the sky was already turning dark. “That’s it for the day, Maggie.”

“How do you know?”

“Because of that.” I pointed to the sky, finally getting her attention. “The creek was high because it rained last night, higher up in the mountains. It looks like the storm has decided to come our way.”

“But it can’t. I need my photo.” She should have sounded like a whiney child, but she didn’t. More like a woman about to get a dream taken away from her. I hated that. I hated that I hated that. But here I stood, trying to come up with ways to make it alright.

She repositioned her tripod near the bank and bent over the viewfinder. A sharp gust swept through the grove, whipping her loose dark braid right across her face and blocking the lens.