Haley's Mountain Man

Sure. Strong. Real.

And in this moment, with her hand clasped in his, with the sun shining on their shoulders, the promise, the potential of love, was more than enough. It was a beginning, maybe their beginning. So she would hope she was right, she would hope that Gavin had also been waiting for her, even if he hadn’t recognized her just yet. She would believe and hope he would.

It was, after all, the Foster way.

Chapter Four

A sane man didn’t willingly invite a hurricane into his home, but somehow, Gavin thought he had done just that by asking Haley to stay for lunch. What had he been thinking? Well, he hadn’t thought. The invitation had shot from his mouth before his brain had grasped on to the numerous—not to mention, sticky—ramifications.

And she’d said yes. So now the expectation was that he’d feed her. Talk to her. And that right there was enough to make him sweat.

He blinked and tried to focus on the contents of the cupboard he’d opened instead of the kick of acid in his stomach. Lunch wasn’t a big deal. Or it shouldn’t be. But the kitchen was torn apart, stuck in the middle of a renovation Gavin hadn’t come close to finishing. Everything functioned, but he’d ripped out the tile, had painstakingly removed three layers of peeling wallpaper and, yesterday, had started the process of sanding the walls.

In other words, the room was a disaster. A dusty, not-fit-for-entertaining-anyone, let-alone-a-woman, let-alone-a-woman-like-Haley, disaster.

The real problem, though, was that he hadn’t shopped yet this week, so his pantry was just about bare. Three cans of tomato soup, one mostly empty jar of peanut butter, half a loaf of bread—just this side of stale—and two cans of pork and beans stared back at him.

Not just bare offerings, but dismal.

“This wasn’t a good idea,” he muttered to himself. Closing the cupboard door with a hard snap, he shook off the descending cloud of humiliation—he had nothing to be ashamed of—and said, “As you can see, the kitchen isn’t exactly fit, and I forgot I haven’t shopped this week. Unless you have a hankering for pork and beans, I think we should plan this for another day.”

Or never. Because really, regardless of her words about friendship or the intense way those words had hit him, they had nothing in common. Would never have anything in common. No reason to start something that wouldn’t have any place to go. Right. That made sense. A solid mix of relief and regret stirred in his gut, equal in strength. He didn’t allow himself time to dwell on either. In less than five minutes, Haley would leave. He’d sort out the rest on his own.

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “Even I can see that you’re revamping the kitchen, and I don’t mind a little mess. Remember, I grew up with three brothers.” She stepped up behind him, so damn close he got a strong whiff of her shampoo. Apple, he guessed.

“That’s kind of you,” he said, recognizing—and hating—the note of desperation in his voice. “Doesn’t alter the fact I don’t have any real food in the house.”

“I’m not a picky eater.” Reaching around him as if she hadn’t heard him, as if she’d stood in this kitchen every blessed day of her life, she opened the cupboard door he’d just shut. His desperation doubled. “Look, there’s plenty to choose from. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“I wouldn’t call plenty an accurate description. And who said I was worried?”

“Sufficient, then,” she said. “And you looked worried, with the way your face was all scrunched up and how you kept pulling at your beard.”

“The beard itches,” he retorted. True enough, but her comment made him self-conscious. “My face was not scrunched up, and I’m not worried. At all.”

“Good. Because you shouldn’t be. You have tomato soup, and if we add a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches, we’ll have an excellent lunch. One of my favorites, actually.”

He blinked again. Yup, a freaking hurricane. Maybe not a category nine, but he’d wager a solid six. Possibly as high as a seven.

“Mine, as well.” What, exactly, would it take to dissuade this woman? Trying again, in a resolute, no-arguments-accepted tone, he said, “Difficult, though, to make grilled cheese sandwiches without cheese. Or butter. So again, I think it would be best to put this off until—”

“I’m here. You’re here. I’m starving, so I’m sure we can come up with something,” she said stubbornly, her gaze fixated on the cupboard, as if a team of elves had miraculously stocked his shelves in the past thirty seconds. “Besides which, you invited me. Remember?”

“That I did, though at the moment I can’t quite recall why.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said with a fair amount of amusement. “Would be unfair to back out now. Rude, too. You wouldn’t want that, now would you? Not when I’m starving and all.”

He scratched at his beard, realized what he was doing and stopped. Stared at the back of her head. Unfair and rude, huh? She had him good and stuck. It seemed that nothing short of an actual hurricane would get her out of his kitchen. He should be annoyed, ready to physically carry her from his home. Instead, he felt something reminiscent of pleasure at her insistence.

Another sensation he refused to dwell on.

Shaking his head, he metaphorically held up his hands in surrender. “I guess not, seeing as you’re starving. And here, apparently refusing to leave.”

With these words, her entire body seemed to soften and she expelled a short breath. Somehow, these small details didn’t escape Gavin’s attention. A fact that didn’t set him at ease or help loosen the hard knot of apprehension in his gut. She rattled him, plain and simple.

Every last thing about her.

“Well, I think we’ll stick with the tomato soup and exchange the grilled cheese sandwiches for peanut butter toast,” she said as she grabbed the necessary items and deposited them on the counter. “Sounds perfect, don’t you think?”

Peanut butter and tomato in the same meal? Closer to revolting, but he wasn’t about to argue. All that would do was prolong this visit. “Sure,” he drawled. “Absolutely perfect.”

“And here you were, about to send me away for no reason at all.”

“Can’t imagine what I was thinking.”

“Me, either.” Nodding toward the refrigerator, she said,

“May I?”

Shocked she’d even bothered to ask, he shrugged. “Seems you’re in charge here, so why not? Though you won’t find much. I don’t keep a lot of supplies on hand.”

“Typical bachelor.” Without pause, she opened the fridge, took stock of its contents—also meager—and pulled out the milk and two containers of yogurt. “For dessert,” she said.

“What? No appetizers?”

“Wow, was that a joke, Mr. Serious?”

“More like ill-timed sarcasm,” he said. Remorse crept in, overriding every other conflicting emotion he had going. She was here because he’d invited her to be here. Wasn’t her fault he didn’t know how to deal with people. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Why? I appreciate a good one-liner.”

“Right. Well, um, I guess—”

“Tell you what,” she broke in, obviously noticing his discomfort. “I’ll heat up the soup if you get me a saucepan. I can’t cook much, but I can handle canned soup without too much difficulty.”

“Nope.” He didn’t know a lot about entertaining, but he knew a guest shouldn’t do the cooking. “You’re a guest. Sit down. I’ll cook.”

“I don’t sit well for very long,” she countered. “You’ll have to give me a job, or—” she paused and a glimmer of light appeared in the depths of her eyes “—actually, that’s a fine idea. I can sit back and relax, ask you questions while you cook. I have a ton of them.”

And then, she actually winked at him. Winked!

“No!” he damn near yelled. Whatever questions Miss Haley Foster might find appropriate to ask, he wasn’t prepared to hear—or answer. He didn’t know her well, but he’d seen enough of her personality to have zero doubts on this front. She’d go for the personal, and he didn’t do personal. With anyone. “I, uh, a job, huh?”

“Yes, please,” she said sweetly, with a bat of her eyelashes.

“I guess you could set the table. Toast the bread, too, if you’d like.” She grinned, wide and … saucy. Since when he had started using terms like saucy to describe a woman’s smile? Glancing away, he said, “Will that be enough to keep you from sitting still for too long?”

“Works for me,” she agreed in the same sweet way. “I’ll just save my questions until we’re eating. It’ll be more fun talking then, anyway. And you’ll be able to pay more attention.”

He rubbed his hands over his face, resisted the urge to yank at his beard. If he wasn’t absolutely positive he stood on solid ground, he’d have sworn the floor shook and swayed. “You do that,” he said, gruffer than he’d intended. “Don’t set your hopes too high, though. I’m not what is known as a chatty guy.”

“Again, this proves how well we’ll get along. I am very chatty.”

“There’s a shocker,” he said.

“And another one-liner!” Her lips quirked again, and he readied himself for whatever she was going to throw at him next. “I bet that you’re far more sociable than you think you are.”

“You’d lose that bet.”

“Hmm. I’m a decent judge of character.”

“Decent isn’t perfect, and I’d bet I know myself better than you.”

“Maybe.” A flyaway strand of hair fell into her eyes. She pursed her lips, puffed, and the strand of hair blew to the side. “Maybe not.”

If she were his to touch, he’d walk over, pull that contraption from her hair, and— Stop, he ordered his brain, right now. Damn good advice, that, so he tossed the words, the image, as far away as possible and searched for balance. Peace. And found none.

She stared at him, her eyes filled with curiosity, and he was positive that she did have the ability to see right into his head, to read every last thought he had. Coughing to break the moment, the intensity of her gaze, he pointed toward the cupboard on the other side of the stove. “Dishes are there. You’ll find silverware in the drawer below. I don’t have fancy stuff.”

Now, why’d he have to go and say something like that?

“I’m not a fancy girl.” With a smart-alecky salute and a sashay of her hips, she walked to where he’d pointed. “Napkins?”

“Nope. I use paper towels.”

She nodded, but didn’t say anything else. Saving it up, he was sure. Should he talk? Probably. About what? He fought to find some topic of conversation that would make it appear as if he were comfortable and not ready to jump clean out of his skin. Nothing worthwhile came to mind, so he quit thinking and focused on his one and only task: heating the darn soup. The sooner they ate, the sooner she’d leave, the sooner he’d be able to breathe again.

They worked around each other, neither speaking. He heard her gather the dishes and silverware, and just as at the Beanery, he felt her presence even when he couldn’t see her. She had an energy that was, at once, vivid and warm. Saturating and, yes, life-affirming. It bounced around the room, around him, in a way that somehow made him feel more whole. Real.

Dammit all. She really did remind him of the sun.

The thought didn’t sit with him any better than it had before, so he inhaled a deep breath into his lungs and stirred the soup. Kept right on stirring, because he wasn’t sure what else to do with himself. He should’ve let her take care of the soup, as she’d wanted. Then, at least, he’d have been mobile and not stuck inside his own head making ridiculous comparisons. Next time, he’d let her— No. There wouldn’t be a next time.

Couldn’t be a next time when he wasn’t sure he would survive this time.

Suddenly, there she was, standing beside him and putting the bread into the toaster. Too close for comfort. A weird sense of familiarity appeared. Almost like déjà vu. If he let himself, he might be able to believe that this—preparing a meal, sharing space with each other—had happened before. Many, many times before. And would happen again.

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