Free On the Mountain (Follow your Bliss #5) by Deirdre Riordan Hall Page A

but with
the exception of country western static, no stations came through clearly.
    Wes cleared his throat. “I went
to high school with the owner of the shop’s son. I’ll call when I get home and
have them tow it down there. Do you mind leaving me the keys? I’ll drop them
off with Curtis, the mechanic, this afternoon.” 
    Although a very determined part
of her wanted to handle this all on her own, without a landline, spotty cell
service, and no clue about where to begin with getting a car repaired, she
accepted Wes’s generosity. When the truck rumbled into the driveway, she
shuffled around in her purse for a twenty-dollar bill—for his trouble. He waved
it away, his attention glued to the porch. Baskia turned to see Trace leaning
against the railing, still in his towel, smoking a cigarette.
    “Looks like someone’s waiting for
you,” Wes said.
    “What him?—” but before she could
say more, Trace strode across the lawn toward the driveway totally at ease
outside, in a towel, looking like Baskia’s boyfriend or boy toy, which he was
not. She wanted Wes to know this, but he’d already put the truck in reverse.
    “I’ll let you know when the car
is ready,” he said, his hand gripping the gearshift.
    Hesitating, Baskia wanted to
explain, but she gathered up her purse, and exited the cab of the pick-up.
“Thanks again.”
    Wes pulled away, but instead of
approaching her, Trace walked over to the motorcycle parked on the other side
of the shed—built to match the cabin, but in miniature. She hadn’t noticed it
earlier.
    “You’ve been up here, what a day?
And you already have a booty call?” he said, exhaling a puff of smoke.
    “No, I broke down, and he gave me
a ride back.” As the defense rose from her lips she wasn’t sure if she meant
that she’d broken down, failed at this experiment already, or that the BMW
wouldn’t start.
    “Gallant.”
    “Huh?”
    “Very gentlemanly, chivalrous.”
    “Whatever.”
    “And he’s getting it repaired for
you, I presume.”
    Instead of engaging in Trace’s
game of questioning her abilities and insulting her with a grin that edged
toward laughter, she stormed into the house. Then she paused. “I just have to
ask, why are you still in a towel?”
    “You haven’t run the laundry yet,
hon,” he called back with a laugh.
    “Ugh,” Baskia vented, stomping
into the house.
    The next few days passed
painfully slow. Baskia was eager to get on with her soul searching. Trapped in
the house without a car, punctual afternoon thunderstorms, and Trace
alternatingly looking like he was sulking and like he was ready to blow
something up, had her on edge. She wanted nothing more than to lock the door to
the cabin and speed back to the city, forgetting the whole thing. Practicing
law or landing in the corporate world wasn’t the worst that could happen. Being
bored out of her mind, keeping to her room, and dealing with a brooding
hottie—on top of the trench of uncertainty that continued to plague her anytime
she thought beyond the present moment—was way, way worse.
    And it was hot. Baskia lounged in
the wooden Adirondack chair, reading and rereading a line in one of the thick,
glossy books on interior decorating her mother had artfully displayed on a
shelf inside. She couldn’t focus, so she rounded to the back deck, hoping for a
breeze to come over the mountain, blowing away her restlessness.
    “Way for August to end with a
wicked heat wave,” Trace said without lifting his head. He rocked in the
hammock on the back deck overlooking the lake and mountain vista. A green
bottle of beer met his lips. Four empty bottles stood in a line on the railing.
“Good thing there’s a lake just feet away to cool off in.” With that, he was up
and running, shedding his t-shirt and jeans. As he neared the lake, he tossed
his boxers off and jumped in, naked. His whoop echoed over the hills and down
into the valley interrupting the tree frogs chirping and