Sunshine for the Mountain Man Bonus Scene
Reed
After the Concert
The concerto is over, the applause has faded, and the mountain is finally quiet again.
Reclaiming the stage should have been the hardest part. It wasn’t.
Because now the cabin is warm, the snow falls softly outside, and Ivy Callahan—the woman who rewrote my unfinished music—is standing at the piano with a smile that promises trouble.
“I thought you were tired,” I say from the doorway.
She glances over her shoulder, curls loose from the braid she wore for the performance.
The lamplight catches the gold in her hair, turning it into something like sunlight trapped indoors.
“I am,” she says.
Her fingers drift across the keys, soft and wandering. “But I’m also inspired.”
I lean against the doorframe, folding my arms.
“That sounds dangerous.”
Her smile deepens. “Oh, it is.”
A quiet chord blooms beneath her hands. Nothing formal. No concerto. Just sound—gentle and playful—like the beginning of a thought.
“Come here,” she says.
I cross the room slowly.
The piano bench is small. Always has been. It was never meant for two people, but Ivy shifts anyway, making space as I sit beside her.
Her shoulder presses against mine. Warm. Familiar.
“Do you hear it?” she asks.
“Hear what?”
“The way the mountain sounds different tonight.”
I listen. Not to the wind. Or the snow. But the silence underneath it all. Peace.
My hand settles on her thigh. “That might just be you.”
Her breath catches softly. “You think so?”
“I know so.”
She turns on the bench, one knee sliding over my leg until she’s half facing me. Her fingers rest lightly against the piano keys, the notes chiming faintly as she moves.
“You know,” she says thoughtfully, “most composers would be jealous.”
“Of what?”
“That I changed your music.”
I brush a thumb along the inside of her wrist. “You didn’t change it,” I murmur.
“No?”
“You finished it.”
Her eyes soften.
For a moment we just sit there, close enough that I can feel the warmth of her breath against my mouth.
“You were very brave today,” she says.
“Conducting?”
“Letting go.”
I smile faintly. “That was the easy part.”
“And the hard part?”
My hand slides to her waist, drawing her closer. “This.”
She tilts her head. “Being happy again?”
“Being yours.”
Her lips curve slowly. “Well,” she says softly, leaning closer, “you don’t seem to be suffering much.”
Our mouths meet. The kiss is slow at first—warm, familiar, filled with the quiet intimacy that only comes after the storm has passed.
“Opening myself up again. Becoming vulnerable,” I whisper, hating how weak the words make me sound.
She stills, hand coming up to stroke my cheek. Her eyes are luminous, emotion pooling in them. Her voice comes out soft and utterly authentic. “Me, too. If I ever lost you… If—”
“Shh,” I whisper, tangling my fingers in her hair. “You will never lose me. I’m yours. Like the concerto.”
“Our music.”
Those two words say everything. Her hands slide up my chest and into my hair, and the kiss ignites. Urgent, ravenous.
The piano keys sound beneath us when she shifts into my lap, a scatter of notes echoing through the cabin.
She laughs softly against my mouth, lingering warm and unhurried.
The piano bench creaks softly as she shifts closer, her knees settling on either side of my thighs. A scatter of quiet notes hum beneath her movement, the instrument protesting gently.
I glance down at the keys. “You’re abusing a very respectable piano.”
She smiles against my mouth. “Improvisation.”
She reaches back, her fingers drifting across the keys again, careless now, creating a wandering melody that echoes softly through the cabin.
Snow falls steadily outside the window. Inside, everything feels warm.
“You know,” she murmurs, her forehead resting against mine, “most composers write their best work after falling in love.”
“Is that so?”
“Mmhmm.”
“And what makes you think I’m working tonight?”
Her eyes glint in the lamplight. “Because,” she says, sliding her hands up the back of my neck, “you’re looking at me like you have another melody in mind.”
I let my hands settle at her waist, drawing her hard against my heat. “You rewrote the cadenza,” I remind her quietly.
“And?”
“And I think you deserve an encore.”
She laughs softly, but the sound fades when I kiss her again, only pulling back when we have to breathe.
The piano answers with a low chord when she shifts against me, the vibration humming through the wood of the bench and into both of us.
Her breath stutters. “Reed…”
“Yes, Ivy?”
“We might wake the whole mountain.”
I brush a kiss along her jaw, smiling against her skin. “Then I suppose we’d better keep the music going.”
Her fingers slide down my chest, tugging lightly at my shirt.
The piano sings again behind us.
And somewhere between the falling snow, the quiet fire, and the soft laughter echoing through the cabin, I realize something with perfect clarity.
The concerto may be finished. But our music is only beginning.
Lacey & Anson
She came for research. She stayed because I wouldn’t let her face the danger alone.
Lacey doesn’t trust men like me—scarred, ex-military, relentless—but someone’s hunting her, and I’ll burn down everything before I let her be taken.
Hurt/comfort. Cowboy heat. HEA guaranteed. No cliffhangers.
Red & Rowdy
I came home from the rodeo circuit ready to build a future—not fake a relationship with the woman who drives me crazy.
I can handle bulls, business, and bad odds. Falling for the one woman I shouldn’t want might be the riskiest move of all.
Enemies to lovers. Fake engagement. Cowboy heat. HEA guaranteed. No cliffhangers.