Scolded by the Mountain Man (Sweetheart Falls)

5. Penny

5

PENNY

I wake up with a nose full of the cleanest, crispest air I can ever remember breathing. I open my eyes to a horizon of trees and a sky filled with violet colored clouds spilling down a tranquil patter of rain, and my heart is instantly filled with joy.

What an incredible contrast to the brown and dusty urban landscape I normally rise to every morning in my apartment back in New York City. My ears are free from the screeching sound of cars braking, the hissing of busses, and the roar of trucks outside my window. I can’t remember the last time I felt this peaceful.

There is one thing I hear as I sit up in bed and brush my hair from my face, and that’s a rhythmic chopping sound coming from outside as though someone would be out there cutting wood in this weather. That’s not possible, though. Is it?

I slide out of bed and walk naked over to the window and look out, seeing the hulking frame that could belong to only one man: Tyson. And he’s wearing a poncho and swinging an axe, chopping enormous logs in half with a single swing like it was nothing.

A tingle runs through my body as I watch. What is this type of man? I’ve never been around anyone like him. All the men I’m used to are city guys. Brokers, lawyers, accountants, guys who dress in suits with soft hands who have multiple pairs of shoes for different situations throughout the day.

It’s hard to imagine Tyson changing his clothes even once unless it was completely necessary. And the calluses on his hands would never fit in with the Wall Street crowd I could introduce him to. I can’t even picture him getting together with any of them and going out to one of their hot spots for an evening. I can’t even picture him in the city at all. It would be like a dog riding a unicycle.

There happens to be a shower in the bathroom, but the water is freezing cold, so I’m in and out in no time. I have no change of clothes, so I’m forced to wear the same things I wore yesterday. And just when I am coming down the stairs, Tyson is coming in from outside.

“You’re finally up,” he grunts, stripping out of his poncho, which he hangs on a hook by the door.

“Finally? What time is it?” I ask.

“Seven–thirty.”

“That’s not that late,” I laugh. “I thought you were gonna say like eleven.”

“Well, you wake with the sun when you live with nature,” he responds, as though what he just said was obvious wisdom I should have been taught when I was a little girl. Of course, thinking about it now, it does seem quite obvious. There are no blinds or curtains on the windows in the bedroom, so it does make sense that Tyson would rise and sleep with the sun.

“Sorry. It won’t happen again,” I tease.

He turns and stares at me, and it’s like I’m suddenly frozen in place. His eyes are filled with such power. I haven’t even known him a full day and yet somehow, I’m desperate to understand him.

“Do you know how to cook?”

“A little. But I’m not that great,” I confess.

“Well I’m hungry,” he replies. “I need to wash up. And while I do, I need you to make me some bacon, eggs, and toast.”

Before I can even reply, he kicks off his boots and starts to head upstairs, as though I’m just going to accept what he just said.

“Wait a second,” I reply. “You need me to make some bacon, eggs, and toast? Why? Because I’m the woman I’m just your slave that you can order around to have do whatever you want? Isn’t that a bit stereotypical?”

Tyson stops midstride, and a pit instantly forms in the middle of my stomach. I know I just said the wrong thing.

He turns back to look at me, and I see a serious, stony look on his face. Very slowly, he takes several steps toward me and stops when he’s only a few feet away. I can smell his sweat. His manly musk must have built up from working outside, and my body instantly starts to tingle again.

“Let me ask you something, city girl,” he says, his voice low. “Did I not save you yesterday from being lost in a terrible storm in the mountains where you could have gotten hypothermia and died?”

It’s impossible to describe how stupid I suddenly feel as I process his question.

“Y–yes, you did.”

“And what about that?” he asks. “Should I not have saved you because it was ‘stereotypical’ for the man to save the woman?”

Somebody smack me with the world’s biggest carnival hammer, because that’s how stupid I feel right now.

I shake my head in shame and lower my eyes. “No, I…I get what you’re saying. I apologize.”

“So do you think you can make some breakfast?” he asks. “Or is that too much for you?”

I nod quickly. “I can. And I’ll do my best to make it the best breakfast I’ve ever made.” I say it and I mean it. For sure.

“Good,” he replies. He turns to go, and I feel as though it’s okay to raise my eyes again. “Oh, how would you like your eggs?”

“Edible,” he grunts on his way up the stairs. “Make enough for yourself as well.”

As soon as Tyson reaches the second floor, I’m off. I race to the fridge and find a carton of eggs and a packet of bacon. I start to pan fry the bacon first, then scramble the eggs while I toast the bread that I find in one of the larger drawers.

I can’t remember the last time I made a man a meal, but I really want to make this good for him. Not just “edible,” but incredible.

I focus hard on not burning the bacon, on not drying out the eggs while I cook them, and making sure I don’t burn the toast. And by the end of it all, when I’m plating everything and fetching the orange marmalade from the fridge, I hear Tyson coming downstairs and realize I actually just had a really great time doing it all.

“Have a seat,” I tell him, walking both plates over to the table. He gives me an inquisitive look but pulls out a chair and plants himself in it. He’s wearing a worn pair of jeans and a red and black flannel shirt that can barely handle the size of his chest and arms. “And enjoy.”

I set his plate down in front of him, put mine down where I’ll be sitting, and go back to the kitchen for drinks.

“What would you like?” I ask.

“Just water is fine,” he replies.

“Don’t get too fancy on me,” I tease, pouring him a water and myself an orange juice. He’s already halfway through his meal once I take my seat, which must be a good sign. “So, you like it?”

He nods, and a warm buzz shoots through me. “You did well. You sure you’re not a cook?”

“Analyst at Goldman Sachs,” I reply. He simply nods. I can’t tell if he’s uninterested or doesn’t know what I’m talking about.

I want to say more, but I’m nervous even just sitting here in front of him. I don’t know what to say to a man like this. So tall, so strong, so commanding. So I choose to just eat instead. After the few minutes it takes for him to finish his meal, he stands and goes to the kitchen.

“I have a few more things I need you to do around the house today for me,” he says simply, as though my compliance is not even in question. As though I’ve suddenly become his housekeeper. “Sweep up, clean the kitchen, clean up the bedroom, and tidy up the living room.”

“Yes, sir,” I reply, teasing again as I dip my head down and flutter my eyelids at him. “But of course, sir.”

I think I see a hint of a smile come across his face before he steps past me and gets into his boots and poncho. It’s still raining quite heavily yet he’s apparently headed back out into the pour to chop more wood.

“Once this storm passes, we’ll work on getting you back to your car,” he says. “Until then…”

He opens the door and steps out into the weather like it’s nothing.

What a man…

That’s the only thought that I can process as I watch him go. I stand there like an idiot for what must be almost an entire minute. And then I remember my duties.

First, I clean up the dishes. Then I get to work on the kitchen. I don’t stop until everything is spotless. I find the broom in the cupboard and sweep up the entire first floor, then tidy up the living room like he said. Then it’s upstairs to straighten up the bedroom.

And it’s at some point during all this, I think while I’m tucking the blankets in at the foot of the mattress, that I realize I’m actually enjoying what I’m doing. There’s no boss shouting at me to hurry up, no jerk brokers around to haze me, no stock prices to stress out over.

I’m spending the day like one of those “trad-wife” girls I’ve seen popping up on the Internet lately, and I’m actually having a good time.

And what’s more, I can’t wait for Tyson to get back so I can see him react to what I’ve done. Hopefully, so he can praise me for it. My heart is actually fluttering inside my chest at the thought.

The day goes by quite quickly, and I realize it’s the middle of the afternoon before I know it and Tyson still hasn’t come in. I check the fridge and find some turkey cold cuts and make us both sandwiches. I plate them with some chips from the cupboards, pour a couple of glasses of water, open the front door and call to him.

“Hey, you! Lunch is ready!”

Tyson swings his axe and splits another log in half like it was nothing, then turns around to face me. His upper half rises and falls as he gulps deep breaths of air. I wave to him, beckoning him inside. He looks at me for a second, then strikes the axe into the large cutting block and leaves it there before he walks over to the house.

I remember when I first made analyst at Goldman Sachs, I had to pitch a stock buy to Jerry, and I knew that bringing it to him as my own idea was super risky. But I did it anyway. I managed to convince him, and we made a lot of money on the trade, and that feeling of elation I felt then is nothing compared to how I feel now just wanting to give Tyson the sandwich I’ve made for him so I can see how he reacts. I don’t even know how to process that.

“Don’t you know when to quit?” I joke with him as he comes inside. This time I reach out and help him out of his poncho and hang it up for him. “You’ll pass out with that axe in your hand. Come on, I made us some sandwiches.”

This time, I’m sure I see him smile as he takes off his boots and walks over to the table with me. We both sit down and dig in. He nods with approval at the first bite, and my entire insides light up like a Christmas tree.

He likes it. Thank God.

“It may not be ‘cooking,’” he says. “But it’s good. Thank you.”

“Of course.” I smile. “And I’ll work on my custom meatballs next.”

Tyson nearly finishes his sandwich before I’ve even eaten half of mine. But I guess that’s how it goes when you’re a massive man more than twice my size and have been working hard all day.

His build is hypnotic. He’s massive, like a primal brute, giving nothing away. But there’s also something more to him. I can tell. He’s like a mystery wrapped in pure sex appeal, and I’ve never felt so drawn to anybody before.

“So, Mr. Mountain Man,” I say, flirtatiously. “What’s a big, handsome guy like you doing way up here in the woods all by himself?”

As if I’ve pressed a button or squeezed a trigger, Tyson rockets up from his chair, causing his plate to slam down on the table and nearly knocking his glass in the process. I yelp as it scares me and causes me to nearly jump out of my chair at the same time.

“Why don’t you stick to what you’ve got to do and mind your own business?” he growls, going back to his boots and his poncho.

Before I can even catch my breath or react, he slams the door behind him and is back outside in the rain. Moments later, I hear the sound of the axe again, rhythmic chops from the blade splitting wood.

What the hell was that?