Tied to the Mountain Man by Aria Cole

Author:Aria Cole [Cole, Aria]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-10-21T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

Holt

The cabin glows in the golden light of the setting sun, shadows from the pine trees dancing along the wooden floors. I lean against the counter, arms crossed, my eyes on Lila as she attacks a lump of pasta dough with a determination that makes my chest tighten. Her hair is pulled back, wisps escaping to frame her face, and she’s got flour smudged on her cheek, right below the delicate curve of her cheekbone. It’s all I can do not to reach out and brush it away, to feel her skin warm under my touch.

“You know,” I drawl, watching the way her hands work the dough, fingers flexing, “I didn’t think a city girl like you knew how to get her hands dirty.” My voice carries that teasing edge, the one I know she hates, but I can’t resist. Not when she looks up at me like that, eyes flashing, the way she bites her lip as if she’s considering whether I’m worth a response.

She rolls her eyes, but a smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, mountain man.” She brushes a stray lock of hair back with her wrist, leaving a streak of flour across her cheek. The sight of it makes something twist inside me. She catches me staring and arches an eyebrow, all challenge and fire. “What, you think just because I like cappuccinos and Wi-Fi, I can’t make fresh pasta?”

I push off the counter, closing the distance between us in a few easy strides until my chest brushes her back. Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she stiffens slightly, as if bracing herself against whatever I’m about to do. I lean in, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. “I think,” I murmur, letting my voice drop low, “that you like showing off.”

Her hands falter on the dough, but she recovers fast, shoving an elbow back against my ribs. “You want to learn how to make real pasta, or do you just like being a pain in my ass?” Her tone is sharp, but there’s a thread of something else there, something breathless and electric.

I chuckle, the sound rumbling against her back, feeling the way her muscles tense under my hands. I let my palms slide over hers, guiding her movements in the dough, feeling the warmth of her skin against mine. “Fine, teach me, then,” I say, my lips close enough to her neck that I catch the scent of her—something sweet and earthy, like wildflowers. “But don’t expect me to go easy on you, princess.”

She gives a small, breathy laugh, but I can hear the tremor beneath it, the way her body leans into mine before she catches herself. We work side by side, flour dusting her shirt, her hair, even the tip of her nose. It’s in the air, swirling around us as we move through the tiny kitchen. And damn, I can’t stop looking at her—at the way her mouth curves when she concentrates, at the flush in her cheeks from the warmth of the stove.

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