Page 4 of Maple Kissed by the Mountain Man

“I... I will.”

She swallowed hard, smoothing both palms over the sides of her red coat, her chest still heaving. Her gaze lingered on my mouth. I wanted to tell her to lean closer and take a taste.

“Get outta here, Maggie.” I stepped back from the fence. “Before I change my mind.”

Her chin went up. “No, you wouldn’t, you’re a man of honor. I’ll see you at six o’clock.”

She turned and hustled back toward her vehicle before I could revoke the offer. I was a man of my word. I just hoped I could keep that unspoken honor system in place the entire time I was with her.

I stood by the locked gate, my hands clamped on my hips, my eyes glued to the gorgeous sway of her hips as she walked away. The dark denim stretched taut over her full ass with every step.

The damn fall foliage had never been this much trouble. I knew letting her onto my land tomorrow could be one of the worst decisions I had ever made. But that didn’t stop me from wishing away the next few hours until morning.

Until I saw her again.

Chapter Two

Maggie

I was giddy as a squirrel in a pecan factory.

Which probably explained why I arrived at Ford Burke’s locked iron gate twenty minutes early with a pack on my back, my camera in my hand, and enough frantic, nervous energy to make a record-breaking time up the trailhead.

Today was the day.

One perfect photograph. That was all I needed to secure first place and the five-thousand-dollar prize money at the Lone Mountain Maple Festival. With that cash added to my savings, I could finally lease a storefront.

My own shop. My work on the walls. A place where people could buy my photographs, paintings, and prints without tracking me down at chaotic weekend craft markets. And I could help other local artists who were struggling to find a following.

I could already picture the sign hanging over the entrance.

Maggie’s Photography and Art.

But first, I had to take the winning photo—and the most breathtaking sugar maples in the entire county belonged to a broody, towering mountain man who treated visitors like a physical infestation.

I checked my watch again.

Still fifteen minutes early.

Ford had grunted at me to be early, but I figured with a man like him arriving on time was being fifteen minutes late. And he was so damn stubborn he probably would refuse to take me up the mountain if the clock ticked one second past six.

I wandered over to my SUV and inspected my reflection in the driver’s-side window. Dark curls were already escaping my braid. My thick sweater was threatening to ride up beneath the straps of my pack. I tugged the hem back down. Curvy girls did not do strips of bare skin at the waist.

The knit fit closer than I remembered when I’d pulled it from the closet. It hugged the heavy swell of my breasts, skimmed past my waist, and clung to the flare of my hips. My dark jeans weren’t any less fitted.

I had dressed for hiking. I had not dressed to make Ford Burke stare.

Well, that was the story I was quietly telling myself and I was sticking to it—even if my skin grew hot just thinking about his big hands on my thick waist yesterday.

Heavy footsteps crunched against the gravel. Ford appeared at the top of the drive as if my wicked thoughts had summoned all six feet four inches of silent, muscular disapproval.

He wore a brown thick coat over a black shirt, faded denim that hugged his massive thighs, and battered leather work boots. His dark hair was damp from the shower, his heavy beard neatly trimmed, and the scar through his left eyebrow made him look deliciously dangerous. He looked raw, broad, and lethal. The kind of man who could...

I let those thoughts drop.

He strode toward me with a heavy brass key in his big hand. He didn’t wave. Didn’t smile. Didn’t give a single sign that he was pleased to see me waiting outside his fence.

His dark eyes dropped to the camera in my hand. Then they moved over me. Slowly.