Page 2 of Auctioned to the Devil

His face belongs on the cover of one of those ridiculous survival magazines.

Strong jaw.

Heavy beard.

Dark hair that’s a little too long.

Gray eyes.

His gaze drifts over me once, slow enough that I suddenly become aware of every wrinkle in my T-shirt, every loose strand escaping my ponytail, every mile of road dust clinging to my jeans.

Heat creeps into my cheeks.

“I didn’t see you,” I say.

He grunts.

That’s it.

One deep, unimpressed grunt.

Then he walks around me without another word.

I blink after him.

Seriously?

I watch him cross the street, moving with an easy confidence that draws attention without seeming to notice it. People nod as he passes. He acknowledges them with the smallest tilt of his chin before disappearing around the corner.

I let out a disbelieving laugh.

“Well,” I mutter to myself, “nice meeting you too.”

Apparently mountain manners are a little different.

A bell jingles overhead as I step inside the diner.

Warmth wraps around me immediately, carrying the scent of fresh coffee, cinnamon, and something buttery baking in the kitchen.

Every booth is occupied.

Construction workers.

Families.

Older couples.

A group of hikers comparing trail maps.

Conversations overlap until someone notices me.

Heads turn with the unmistakable curiosity reserved for strangers. I offer an awkward smile before making my way toward the counter. A woman somewhere in her sixties wipes her hands on a dish towel and beams at me.

“You must be Emily Harper.”

I stop.

“I am.”