Chapter Four
Micah
I should say no.
Should turn back around and lead Roxy back to our own cabin in the woods and forget all about this beautiful woman with her shiny blonde hair, big brown eyes, and soft, luscious curves.
That thought sticks with me as I follow her down the narrow path to her house. I helped her out of the ravine and even made sure she got home safely.
My job's done.
It’s what any decent human would do, and it doesn’t require payment of any kind. Not even a warm, homecooked meal—which I have to admit would be amazing.
On occasion, I load up the smoker with venison, beef, pork, chicken, and fish—the five main food groups in a mountain man’s diet. That’s the extent of my cooking. The truth is, Roxy and I both eat most of our meals out of cans.
Roxy trots along beside Jenny without so much as a glance in my direction. I guess that settles it. If I ever want to see my dog again, I’d better follow too.
I try to not stare at Jenny as she moves through the trees. She's so careful, watching her feet as she steps over roots, adjusting when the ground dips. She barely even looks at her surroundings, her eyes glued to the path in front of her.
I don’t need to remind her to stay on the trail. She’s clearly not the sort of woman who steps out of line, well, ever.
And yet she did follow Roxy into a ravine and now she’s invited me over for dinner. A bit of a conundrum, this woman.
We step out of the woods into the clearing of her back yard. Her cabin is small, well-kept, with daffodils and tulips blooming in cheerful patches along the walkway. There’s a woodpile stacked neatly beside the steps and a pair of muddy boots by the door.
She pushes the door open and steps inside. "Make yourself at home.”
I follow her inside, hesitating for only a moment.
The space is warm—and not just temperature.
There's a lived-in quality to it, with papers stacked on the table, a laptop open beside them, and several highlighters and ink pens next to that.
A colorful crocheted blanket is draped over the back of a leather loveseat, and a cozy armchair sits next to the couch.
Roxy claims the chair for herself, hopping up and settling in.
I groan. “Roxy—” I start, ready to tell her to get off the furniture, but Jenny just laughs.
“I did tell her to make herself at home,” Jenny says. “You should, too.”
Instead, I stay near the door and take it all in. She moves into the kitchen without waiting, pulling open cabinets, checking the fridge, and yanking out ingredients.
“Well,” she calls out, “I wasn’t prepared for a dinner guest, but it looks like I have all the ingredients to make chicken pesto pasta and salad. And I have a loaf of sourdough bread from the farmer’s market. Sound okay to you?”
My mouth practically waters. “That sounds delicious.”
She smiles a little and turns back to the counter. A cutting board comes out, followed by a pan. She lines up the ingredients and gets to work.
I lean one shoulder against the wall and watch her. The knife moves in steady, even cuts. Nothing rushed or careless. She’s in complete control here.
"You cook a lot?" I ask.
She glances over. "I try to. My job keeps me busy, so there are some days when I have no choice but to pick up dinner somewhere, but I prefer to make my meals at home.”
I look around the table, the open files, the highlighted pages. “Lawyer?” I guess.
She nods. "Environmental nonprofit. Trying to make the world a better place.”
Interesting. “Sounds like a tough job.”
“It can be,” she agrees. “But it can also be really rewarding. I want to preserve as much of this beautiful planet as we can for future generations.”
She turns back to the stove. The smell hits a minute later, garlic, pesto, and butter sizzling in the pan. My stomach growls in response.
“Mind if I give Roxy some chicken?”
I shake my head. “Not at all.”
“Come here, Roxy,” Jenny calls. Roxy obeys immediately, like Jenny is her favorite person in the world.
Traitor.
Jenny gives her the chicken and Roxy scarfs it down in record time.
“Sheesh, Roxy,” I mutter. “Have some manners.”
Jenny laughs. “If she was a food critic, I think I’d have just earned a Michelin star.”
For a minute the only sounds are the knife against the cutting board and the food sizzling in the pan. It’s a comfortable, easy kind of quiet. And I’m discovering that Jenny doesn’t feel the need to fill the silence. She talks when she has something to say and doesn't when she doesn't.
If everyone could be like that, I wouldn’t have to spend so much time in the woods alone.
I find myself imagining how my life would be with Jenny in it. Which is an absurd thought. She’s a beautiful and intelligent lawyer… and I’m, well, a grumpy mountain hermit.
“So, what do you do, Micah? Besides rescue foolish women who’ve wandered off the trail?”
“Um,” I say uneasily, not really wanting to talk about myself. “I did twenty in the Marines. Now I’m retired. I bought a nice piece of land and now I sell timber. In the summer, I sometimes work on boats at Lake Mercury.”
She looks at me in surprise. “Retired Marine? But you’re…” Her voice trails off.
I raise an eyebrow. “What?”
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I just think of Marines as, erm, clean-cut, I guess?”
“And I was, for twenty years. Now, I don’t have to be.” I run my fingers through my beard a bit self-consciously. Maybe it’s time for a trim.
She smiles. “I get that. I have to dress up for court, but you won’t catch me in a pair of pantyhose when I’m off the clock.”
As she plates the food, she tells me about a case she’s working on.
A rural community’s water supply has been contaminated—families who’ve lived there for generations suddenly can’t drink from their own taps.
She’s helping put together the case against the company responsible, digging through lab reports and fighting to prove what’s already painfully obvious.
Something in my chest goes tight. I’ve seen what bad water can do to a community.
I lean back against the counter, arms folded across my chest. “We had something like that when I was deployed,” I say. “Small village near where we were running patrols. Water source got contaminated somehow. People kept using it because they didn’t have another option.”
She pauses, glancing up at me. “What happened?”
“Kids got sick first,” I say. “Then everyone else. Stomach issues. Skin problems. Whole place went downhill fast.”
Her expression tightens. “Were they able to fix it?”
“Eventually,” I say. “Took longer than it should’ve.” I glance at her. “People in charge kept saying it was being handled. Didn’t look handled to me.”
Her mouth presses into a thin line. “It never is.”
“No,” I agree. “It’s not.”
For a second, neither of us says anything.
Then I nod my head at her in acknowledgement. “Sounds like they’ve got the right person on it here, though. You’ll make sure the problem is fixed.”
She huffs out a quiet breath, like she’s not sure whether to believe that.
But I do. I’ve just met her, but I can see how passionate she is, how dedicated. How fucking impressive.
She begins setting the table, and I step forward to help. “Let me take those,” I say, grabbing the plates.
When we sit down to eat, she smiles shyly, gesturing at the meal. “I hope you enjoy this.”
“I already am,” I admit. She could hand me a cold can of beans and a slice of bread, and it would still be the best meal of my life, simply because I’m sitting across from her.
Her cheeks turn a lovely shade of pink. “Bon appétit.”
I take a bite, closing my eyes to savor the explosion of flavors on my tongue. It's good. Better than good. It’s amazing. I open my eyes and see that she’s watching my face.
“Well?” she asks, her lips curving into a smile. “Edible?”
“Delicious,” I say. “Possibly the tastiest thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.”
She stills for just a second, like she wasn't expecting that. Then she looks down at her plate, a small smile at the corner of her mouth. “I’m glad you like it.”
After dinner, she walks Roxy and me to the door. There's a pause there, like she's deciding whether to say something else.
"Well, thanks again. I really can’t say it enough.”
"Stay on the trail," I tell her, teasing.
"If I stayed on the trail, I wouldn’t have met you or Roxy.”
Roxy barks at the sound of her name, and Jenny and I both laugh.
So, is this it? Do I ask for her phone number? Do I ask to see her again?
I run a hand through my hair, stifling a wince when my fingers meet resistance from the tangled locks. Why would she want to see me again? I’m a goddamn mess.
And she’s practically perfect, at least ten years younger than me, gorgeous, brilliant, and a good cook.
Far too good for me.
But sometimes a guy just has to shoot his shot, right? What do I have to lose?
“Roxy would be heartbroken if she didn’t get to see you again.”
Her eyes crinkle at the corners. “Well, we can’t have that. Are you two free again for dinner tomorrow? Same time, same place?”
I grin at her. “As long as you mean here, and not the bottom of a cliff, it’s a date.”