My Mountain Man Recluse: A Grumpy Sunshine Age Gap Romance

6. Izzie

There’s still no signal on my darn phone. The thing may as well be an expensive paperweight for all the use it is out here in a storm.

Jagger disappeared into his office two hours ago, and I’ve been pacing the cabin ever since.

He wouldn’t let me look at his arm again even though there’s blood on the bandage. He shied away when I tried to touch him as if the very thought of me repulses him.

Of all the people to be holed up in a cabin with, I have to get the grumpy recluse who only wants to speak to his dog.

The dryer finished, but I stayed in Jagger’s clothes. They’re much comfier than my jeans, and I like the way they smell of woodsmoke and cigars and a musky scent that is all Jagger.

There’s a bookshelf full of books and I selected a thriller, but I couldn’t still my brain enough to read. I haven’t read a book since the day of the accident.

I need to be doing something, engaging my body and mind. I hate being still, and I’d rather pace the room than sit and read a book. Every time I sit still my mind wanders, and I don’t like that.

So I do what I always do. I take stock of Jagger’s kitchen and find that there are ingredients to make cookies. He doesn’t have any chocolate, which is disappointing, so I make oat cookies thick with brown sugar and maple syrup.

While they’re cooking, I get busy cleaning his kitchen and tidying his cupboards. Luckily my playlists are downloaded, so I’m able to put on some music and try to drown out the rain.

The cookies are cooling when Jagger finally emerges from his office.

“I’ve spoken to your dad.”

“The WiFi’s back?” I grab my phone to check, but he shakes his head irritably.

“No. I have a radio comms set.”

Of course he has. A generator and radio comms, chickens, a dog. He’s got all he needs up here.

My heart pings mournfully. It’s a waste that this sexy, smart man chooses to live here alone.

He tells me about the road washing away and the update on Fritha being found. While he talks, I make a pot of coffee and put two cookies on a plate. I slide them toward him, and he looks down at them reluctantly.

“I baked,” I say brightly, “I hope you don’t mind.”

He’s frowning as he takes a bite of cookie, and I watch carefully as the frown turns to a reluctant look of appreciation. The closest thing to a smile I’m going to get.

“These are good.”

I beam at the praise. “I’ve popped the lasagna in the oven. It’ll be ready in about fifteen minutes.”

We eat at the small table. He pulls the chair out from his office, obviously not used to company. I wonder what sent him into the hills, away from everyone, but it doesn’t feel right to ask.

Instead I chat, filling the silence by telling him about my nursing degree and life at Duke.

“You gonna stay in Durham when you graduate?”

It’s the first he’s spoken since we started dinner, and it affects me more than it should that he’s interested enough to ask a question.

“No way.”

He raises his eyebrows in surprise.

“I want to come back here. I couldn’t live anywhere else but the mountain. I’m going to be a nurse practitioner.”

Just like Mom, I leave unsaid.

His expression softens, and I look down at my plate as emotion bubbles up inside me. Darn it, I will not cry today.

I push the chair back abruptly, and it bumps into the underside of the stairs. This darn cabin is too tiny.

“I’ll do the washing up.”

He stands slowly and takes my plate. “I’ll do it. You’ve done enough. Relax.”

I don’t want to relax. I want to keep busy, to keep moving. “You can’t get the bandage wet.”

It’s the first excuse I think of, but he hesitates.

“You wash, I’ll dry.”

I run the sink and all the while ask him questions about the cabin. I find out that he built it himself with his own bare hands, and that it’s based on a Swedish design for tiny homes. I ask about how he got the supplies up here, the type of wood he used, and the polish on the floors. I ask questions like I’m a journalist doing a piece on cabin building. But it keeps him talking, and by the time the dishes are done, my brain is turning over the possibilities of how you’d extend the cabin and what interior design I’d improve on.

I’ve successfully diverted my thoughts once again from the one thing I don’t want to think about.