Tate (Mountain Men 3)

I stifle a giggle. For some reason it strikes me as funny, but I don't allow him to see this. Instead, I dutifully take the arm he offers me, and we walk toward the back entrance.

I wonder if I've made a strategic error. I came here today, not because I need to see my boss, but because the newest shipment of Clan Chronicles paperbacks has arrived. I've hidden quite a lot, but I don't know how much more I can hide. So the theory is, if I had something to hide, I’d keep him away. Proudly flaunting evidence near him should get me off the hook.

Right?

And what will he do when he finds out, anyway?

Just before we go in, my head goes fuzzy and light, and I lose my footing. My toe catches on a sharp rock, and I lurch forward. The next thing I know, he’s holding me flush against him, lifting me straight back up again, both hands on my arms. He doesn’t let me go, though. He snakes an arm around my waist and holds me close.

We're so close, I can see the little flecks of color in his eyes, and a freckle just above his left eyebrow, the one with the scar.

"Watch where you're going," he chides, and it could be my over-sexed imagination, but his eyes look more bedroom “come hither” than angry.

The best defense is a good offense.

"As if you think I did that on purpose? Why are you always so grumpy, anyway?” I shake my head and push him away from me, but one does not detach Tate Cowen’s hands easily.

He huffs out a breath. “I just don't want to see you fall and crack the rest of your head open."

I shove him harder, and he lets me go.

Maybe it’s because I’m tired, or maybe it’s because I’ve been in pain and it’s been a really long few days. Maybe I’m more sensitive than usual, and more than a little afraid he’s going to find things out when he goes into the bookstore. But for some reason, this particular comment makes tears blur my vision. I look quickly away to hide them. I don’t want to show any sign of weakness. I try to blink them back, but not before a traitorous one falls onto my cheek. I swipe it away rapidly as we come to the back entrance to the bookstore.

He turns to me. “Fran, we should probably—”

But his words freeze on his lips, and his tone softens. "Jesus, Fran, are you crying?"

I silently beg him, don’t go soft on me, Tate. Don’t. I can resist him when he’s angry, but this...

“Leave me alone.”

“Look at me.”

Again his voice is harsh, and I nearly flinch from the sound of it. "Fuck off," I tell him. "I'm perfectly fucking fine."

He reaches for me, but I sidestep. I don't want his help, and I definitely don't want his sympathy. I'm not a girl who cries, and I sure as hell am not going to start being one now.

My hand is on the back door, when suddenly he grabs my hand. His grip is so tight, I try to yank my hand away from his. The next thing I know, his forehead’s touching mine, his fingers gripping the back of my neck so tightly I can't move and his other hand wraps around my lower back like I belong to him.

I blink rapidly, still trying to hold back tears, when his lips brush mine, and my mind is immediately swept clean. I can’t think of anything beyond the feel of his lips, his breath mixed with mine, the way he holds me so tightly I can’t breathe.

He pulls away too soon.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “You probably thought you’d finished with douchebag husbands.”

And just like that, I’m laughing, one of those ugly snort-laughs until I swear I'm half crying, with tears running down my face and my nose all runny.

"I didn't know I was funny," he says.

"Maybe it's the medication,” I say and for some reason I find that uproariously funny as well.

He stares at me as if I’ve gone mad, then finally cracks a grin, and my pounding heart comes to a stuttering halt, mesmerized by the way his eyes light up. I vow to make it my mission in life to make him smile more often.

Suddenly, someone opens the door to the bookstore, and we jump away from each other. I blink in surprise when I see it’s one of my coworkers. Lenny’s a tall, gangly youth with thick spectacles and a sparse beard, wearing a knit cap, faded black trousers, and one of those funny jackets with leather on the elbows, giving him the appearance of a dirt-broke professor.

“Oh hey, Lenny,” I say, giving him what I hope is a friendly smile. I feel like I’m sort of deer-in-the-headlights grimacing, and that could cause suspicion.