Tracy Madison - Haley's Mountain Man

“Why do you want to be my friend?” Gavin asked slowly, hesitantly, from behind her. “What—what propelled you to make such a decision when you have no idea who I am?”

She didn’t turn, didn’t move, didn’t even take in air. “I don’t know, not fully,” she said, going with honesty. “There’s something about you that calls to me, and I want to know what that something is. I want to get to know you, and I. Well, I think … that is, I believe, that you’re a person very much worth getting to know. If you’ll let me.”

His hand tightened on her shoulder. Not a lot, but enough to know that her words had impacted him on some level. Silence enveloped her, them, for what could have been one second or a million years. Tracking the passage of time became inconsequential.

Then the deep rumble of his voice hit her ears again. “If the offer still stands, I’d like to take you up on it. The friendship part, if not the other.”

Tears, unbidden and totally unexpected, filled Haley’s eyes. This admittance was also important, also held weight and conviction. And she felt every ounce of that importance, that weight and conviction to the tips of her toes. In her heart, as well.

Maybe even in her soul.

“That is an offer that doesn’t have an expiration date,” she said, purposely keeping her tone light and breezy. “So yes, Gavin, the offer very much still stands.”

“Okay, then,” he said. And darn if she didn’t hear surprise and disbelief in those two little words. That was fine. He’d discover soon enough that she didn’t tend to say anything she didn’t mean. “Are you hungry?” he asked, still hesitant, still disbelieving. “I could make us some lunch, if you are. If you’d like to stay for a while.”

“Starving, actually.” One breath in, and then another, and she dropped her keys in her purse. Twisted her body toward the mountain man, looked into his gray-blue eyes, and pieces somewhere deep inside that she hadn’t known were broken became connected, and the world felt … whole. She smiled. “I would love to stay. What’s on the menu?”

“Ah … I guess I don’t know. Let’s go see what I have.”

He reached for her hand, stopped midmotion. Looked at her with uncertainty and something else—yearning, she decided—and a few more broken pieces reconnected. The odd sensation of a great loss disappeared. Yes, this man was important. Vitally so.

For now, she brought her hand to his and squeezed. He nodded, tightened his grip on hers, and together they walked hand in hand toward his house, neither speaking.

Logic be damned. Because she knew, in a way she had never known one other thing in her life thus far, that this connection was what she’d been waiting for. All of her loneliness, itchiness, restlessness came down to this, to one man, to Gavin Daugherty.

He was the reason. He was the cure.

He was who she’d been waiting for. She knew it. When the Fosters fell, they fell hard. And they fought just as hard for what and who they believed in, cared for, loved. Too soon by a large margin to declare love for Gavin, but the promise of that emotion was there.

Sure. Strong. Real.

And in this moment, with her hand clasped in his, with the sun shining on their shoulders, the promise, the potential of love, was more than enough. It was a beginning, maybe their beginning. So she would hope she was right, she would hope that Gavin had also been waiting for her, even if he hadn’t recognized her just yet. She would believe and hope he would.

It was, after all, the Foster way.

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