Lost with the Mountain Man

Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

BEAU

I take one step outside and regret my decision.

The cold rushes over me like a slap, sinking its teeth into my cheeks and numbing my fingertips. I shove my hands into my coat pockets, forcing myself forward. Malcolm waits at the edge of the porch, the snowfall dusting his dark beard. He’s unfazed, a statue against the cold, as solid as the surrounding trees.

“You sure about this?” he asks, his breath clouding the air between us. His tone is easy, but his eyes—dark and assessing—linger on my shivering frame. “No shame in staying inside, keeping warm with Jessamy.”

“I’m good,” I say, though my teeth betray me, chattering already.

He gives me one last look, then shrugs. “Let’s head out, then.”

I follow him into the white expanse, trusting he knows the way. The snow crunches beneath our shoes. Malcolm moves with purpose, each step carving a path I can only hope to keep up with.

Halfway there, my nose tingles with a sudden lavender smell. It stops me in my tracks, the scent far different from the pine and frost that dominated before.

I glance to the side, following it with the tip of my nose, and glimpse a frozen lake through the snowfall. It lies down a short slope near the cabin, its surface blanketed in unbroken white, save for a few dark cracks radiating from the center like a spiderweb.

For a moment, I pause, held by the lavender-scented air, the spot’s beautiful simplicity against the mountain. I almost reach for my cellphone, intent on taking some photos for Jessamy, thinking she might find inspiration, but I remember that I left it inside.

“Beau?” Malcolm shouts back through the wind. “Keep up!”

I shuffle forward to catch up with his wide gait.

By the time we reach the woodshed, my ears and nose sting. When he throws the door open, I don’t hesitate, rushing inside with a grateful sigh. The walls block the wind, the stillness within the shed wrapping me like a flimsy but welcome blanket.

It’s more than just a shed—it's a craftsman’s sanctuary. The centerpiece is a tree stump, worn and jagged from use, surrounded by neatly stacked logs ready to be chopped. Tools line the walls, each meticulously placed. Even I, someone who has never swung a hammer in earnest, can’t help but feel a pang of manly respect.

“Nice shed,” I say, eying a rack of drill bits that look more at home in a workshop catalog than in the middle of the woods.

“Thanks,” Malcolm replies, already moving to kneel by a small wood-burning stove tucked in the corner. He strikes a match, coaxing a flame to life with patience that feels as unshakable as he is.

“Takes a few minutes,” he says, standing and brushing his hands on his jeans. “But it should warm up in here for you.”

“Thank you,” I say, meaning it.

While I hover near the growing warmth, Malcolm strides to the woodpile and grabs an ax mounted to the wall. He sets a thick log on the stump. The ax rises, catching the low light, and falls with a sharp crack, splitting the wood clean in two.

“Sharp ax,” I manage, my voice coming out quieter than intended.

He glances at me, a flicker of amusement in his eyes, then swings again.

Inside the shed, the cold gives way to a tolerable warmth, enough for my fingers to stop aching. Malcolm continues his steady rhythm, splitting logs like it’s second nature, the muscles in his shoulders shifting under his coat. It’s hard not to notice how effortlessly he moves, how the world seems to bend slightly around him.

“Want to give it a try?” he asks, offering me the ax.

I step forward, the opportunity both daunting and intriguing. The handle feels solid in my grip, the weight heavier than I’d expected.

“Just raise it and whack?” I ask.

“That’s about it,” he says, stepping back to give me room. He leans against the wall by the stove, the glow highlighting the angles of his face as he watches.

He’s always watching.

Heat rises to my cheeks, and I turn my focus to the stump. A thick log waits for me, daring me to split it.

I lift the ax, mimicking Malcolm’s earlier stance, and swing. The blade misses, embedding itself into the stump with a jarring thunk . The shock reverberates up the handle, buzzing through my arms.

Malcolm makes a noise that might be a laugh. “Try again.”

I grit my teeth, adjusting my grip. The second swing is better—I hit the log this time, at least—but the blade lodges halfway through, refusing to go further. I lift it again. The log comes with it, and I nearly lose my balance.

“Give it another tap,” Malcolm says, his voice calm and encouraging. “Should push right on through.”

I do, and this time, the wood splits, two pieces tumbling to the floor.

“Good,” he says. “You’ll get used to it.”

I adjust my grip, choking up on the handle. “Harder than it looks,” I mutter.

“Everything takes practice. We all crawled before we could walk.”

Nodding at his point, I set another piece of wood on the stump. “So, how long have you been out here?”

“A few years.”

I swing again. The blade sinks deep but stops short. Another tap finishes the job. “All by yourself, huh? You don’t get lonely?”

“Not really.”

I nod, considering that. “Can’t say I haven’t thought about it myself. Selling everything, quitting my job, and just…” I trail off, chopping another piece of wood. This time, it splits in one clean motion. The pieces aren’t even, but I’ll take the win. “Escaping.”

“Why don’t you?”

I lean back, stretching my aching arms. “Just not realistic. No offense. It obviously suits you. But for me and Jess?” I shake my head, moving to grab another log.

“Your family keeps you busy.”

“Work keeps me busy,” I correct. “Jessamy’s, too. That café would be in shambles without her.”

“You don’t take days off?”

I laugh. “What are those again?”

Malcolm doesn’t reply, his gaze lingering on me in a way that feels heavier than the ax in my hands.

I lower the ax, the blade’s weight thumping against the frozen ground. “Look,” I say, turning to Malcolm. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I don’t… I never intend to put my work over my wife. Please don’t think that.”

His dark eyes settle on me, steady and piercing. “Do you always care what other people think of you?”

I shrug, my breath clouding between us. “Who doesn’t?”

“I don’t.”

“Well, you don’t have the same responsibilities I do. Again, no offense.”

I turn back toward the stump, gripping the ax tighter. My next swing cuts clean through the log, my frustration sharpening my aim.

“Sounds like you put a lot of pressure on yourself,” Malcolm observes, his tone unnervingly calm. “Are you an only child, Beau?”

The question twists something in my stomach. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“A family’s legacy sitting on your shoulders alone,” he says, watching me. “It’s easy to get overwhelmed.”

“I’m not overwhelmed.”

“Would Jessamy agree with that?”

The words hit harder than I’d like to admit. I bite back my irritation, spinning around and slamming the last log onto the stump. The ax cleaves through it effortlessly, embedding deep into the wood below. I yank at the handle, but it doesn’t budge.

“Leave it,” Malcolm says. “We’ve got enough.”

I let the ax go, but the tension inside me doesn’t ease. My hands curl into fists at my sides. “I’m not a bad husband,” I say, the words quiet and unsteady, betraying the strength I want them to carry.

His gaze softens. “I don’t think you are. I think you’re doing the best you can, trapped between the life you want and the expectations of others. There’s nothing bad about that.”

The observation sinks deep, seeping past my defenses before I can stop it. My chest tightens. He’s already seen more of me than most people ever do, and his words press into spaces I don’t want to acknowledge.

“What’s your story, Malcolm?” I ask, forcing the focus onto him.

He chuckles, low and rough. “Jessamy asked me the same thing.”

“Yeah? What’d you tell her?”

“Nothing.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not that interesting.”

“Yeah,” I hum, suspicion coiling in my gut. “You seem more interested in us and our lives. Why is that?”

His lips twitch into a faint smile. “It’s easy to take an interest in a couple as open as you two have been.”

The air between us thickens, charged with something I can’t name. Heat prickles at the back of my neck, spreading across my cheeks. “That’s not something we do often. Don’t get the wrong idea about that, either.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“I just don’t want you to think we’re some kind of swinging exhibitionist couple or something.”

His brow lifts, faint amusement flickering in his eyes as he steps closer, his thick boots owning the ground beneath him. “Why do you care what I think?”

“Because…” My frustration mounts, spilling over into my voice. “Because opinions matter! How you appear to other people matters.”

“Does it?”

“Yes.”

“And your mother’s opinion of Jessamy’s paintings? Does that matter? Or is that the only opinion that doesn’t matter to you?”

I flex, the words hitting right where they were meant to hit.

Malcolm inches even closer. “Is that why you deny who you truly are?” he asks, his tone soft but pointed. “Because of what others—what your family or their friends—might think of you?”

The question catches me off guard, tightening my chest. “What are you talking about?”

His lips curl, just enough to make my pulse skip. “You enjoy being watched,” he says. “Don’t you?”

“So what?” I counter, my voice hitching. “It’s not that uncommon.”

“It’s an incredibly common fantasy,” he agrees, the calm in his tone only amplifying the heat simmering in my veins.

“Then what of it?”

He leans in, the space between us evaporating. His presence is overwhelming, his manly scent curling around me like a snake. “You like it when it’s another man watching.”

I freeze, my stomach flipping as the words settle between us. He’s too close, his breath warming the chill on my face.

I don’t move. I don’t reply. I can’t.

“Tell me, Beau,” he murmurs, his voice like velvet over steel. “Back then… did you stare at your old roommate the same way you were staring at me this morning?”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” I say, but the waver in my voice betrays me. “I’m not?—”

Malcolm moves . He grabs my coat with a single hand, pushing me back against the wooden wall of the shed with startling ease.

“Hey—!” I protest, but my words falter as his body pins me in place. He’s warm—too warm—and I feel every inch of him, solid and unyielding.

“Beau,” he whispers, my name thick with something I can’t decipher. “Have you ever been with another man?”

“No.”

His brow arches, as if he can tell I’m lying. As if he can see right through me. “If I kissed you," he asks, “do you think your wife would mind?”

The question steals my breath, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Of course she would,” I manage.

He makes an amused noise. “Funny,” he murmurs. “When I asked her that, she said she didn’t know.”

Anger claws at my nerves. “Excuse me?”

Malcolm smirks, his lips still so close.

“You came onto my wife?” I shove at him, but it’s like pushing a boulder. “You son of a ? —”

“Calm yourself, Beau.”

“Fuck you!”

I try again, but his hands catch mine, pinning my wrists against the wall. His grip is firm but not painful, his closeness both suffocating and electric.

“Beau,” he says, the name laced with command, and my struggling ceases. His voice, his presence. Jessamy. It’s all too much. “What do you want?”

“I want you to get off me,” I whisper, the words trembling with something more than anger.

He shakes his head, his beard brushing against me. “Close your eyes,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble. “And tell me what you really want.”

I obey, my eyelids falling shut. My senses sharpen—the heat of his breath, the weight of his hands on my wrists, the steady rhythm of his heart against mine.

“Shh,” he soothes. “Think of yourself back by the fireplace. Warm and comfortable with Jessamy.”

“Jessamy,” I repeat, her name a lifeline.

“How did it feel to give her what she wanted? To be the man she needed?”

“Powerful,” I whisper, the word so achingly true.

His beard grazes my jaw, sending a shiver down my spine. “What do you want, Beau? Can she give it to you? Or do you want her to watch as I?—”

“No,” I say, snapping my eyes open.

Malcolm locks eyes with me; sharp as knives, but as comforting as clouds. “If you aren’t honest with yourself about what you truly want in this life, then you’ll never stay true to her. You’ll spend the rest of your days living up to your family’s standards, making her promises you’ll never keep until she either leaves you or resents you. Is that what you want, Beau?”

I swallow around the lump in my throat. “No.”

“Then figure out what you want and talk to her before it’s too late.”

Malcolm releases me. He walks to the stove and extinguishes the flame, the warmth fading as quickly as it came.

I stand still, my hands voluntarily locked in the same spot he held them, my entire body trembling. Only when I move do I realize the extent of my arousal, my cheeks flushing with shame as I subtly adjust the fit of my jeans.

“Let’s head back,” Malcolm says, his voice steady, unaffected as he pulls the ax free from the stump. “Storm will pick up again soon.”