Page 10 of Hot for the Mountain Man

"I know you do." He leaned back, studying me. "You're the best man for this job, though I know you'd rather jump into an actual fire than speak in public."

A reluctant smile tugged at my lips. "That obvious?"

"Only to anyone with eyes." He sighed. "Look, I know these events aren't your thing in the first place. But this department needs the community's support, especially after last season's budget cuts. Your speech matters."

"No pressure," I muttered.

"Just be yourself. These people respect what we do. They want to hear from someone they admire, someone who's been on the front lines." He paused. "Though maybe leave out the more gruesome details. We want them opening their checkbooks, not having nightmares."

I nodded, tucking the folder under my arm. "Anything else?"

"Yeah." He fixed me with a stern look. "Get your dress uniform cleaned. Last thing we need is you showing up looking like you slept in it."

"Yes, sir," I replied dryly, earning a dismissive wave from Dawson.

By the time I left the station, dusk was settling over Ashwood. I turned into the parking lot of Mountain Valley Market to pick up something for dinner. After tossing a rotisserie chicken and a couple of baked potatoes into my cart, I grabbed a few more essentials before heading to checkout. My mind was already back at my cabin, away from all this gala talk.

The drive up the mountain was exactly what I needed—each mile putting more distance between me and the obligations waiting in town. By the time I pulled up to my cabin, some of the tension had eased from my shoulders.

Inside, I put away groceries and spotted the empty cookie tin on my counter. I'd finally tossed Peyton's rock-hard chocolate chip cookies into the compost bin yesterday, though not before attempting one last bite that nearly chipped a tooth. The memory pulled an unexpected smile from me. She was confident enough to admit they were terrible, which somehow made them better.

I grabbed a beer from the fridge and Dawson's folder of speech notes. The basics were simple enough: fire prevention tips, safety guidelines, ask for money. Twenty minutes of talking, tops, then freedom. I could handle that.

Settling on the porch with my beer, I tried to focus on the notes, but my mind kept drifting to the woman who'd shown up at my door with that tin of inedible cookies. Would she be watching from the audience as I gave my speech? The thought sent an unexpected surge of heat through me, and I couldn't help wondering what Peyton might wear to a black-tie event. Would she look as good in formal wear as she had in that blue sweater, standing in my doorway with a determined smile?

Three days until the gala. Three days to remember that no matter how much I'd enjoyed the sparkle in her eyes when she started talking about ideas to fix up my place properly, getting involved with someone who'd leave Ashwood when her project ended wasn't in my plans.

I tipped my beer toward the compost bin visible at the edge of my clearing.Here's to best-laid plans—and terrible baking.

So why did I have the feeling that nothing about Saturday night would be simple at all?

Chapter Five

Peyton

"And if we knock out this wall here," I explained, tracing my finger along the architectural rendering, "we'll create a seamless flow between the lobby and the lounge area, bringing in much more natural light."

I held my breath as Walter and Marguerite Ellison, owners of the Ashwood Lodge, exchanged glances. Their investment in this renovation represented the largest project I'd landed in my career so far, and my modern-rustic concept would either thrill or alienate them. After what seemed like an eternity, Walter's weathered face broke into a smile.

"Bold move, but I like it," he said, nodding toward his wife. "Makes the space feel twice as large without adding a single square foot."

Marguerite tapped the color palette I'd assembled. "And these earthy tones with pops of blue—they capture the essence of Fire Mountain beautifully."

Relief flooded through me. "I'm so glad you think so. The goal was to bring the outside in, creating a space that feels both luxurious and connected to the natural landscape."

"Well, you've certainly accomplished that," Walter declared, closing the portfolio with a decisive snap. "Let's fast-track this. How soon can construction begin?"

"Immediately," a voice chimed in from behind me. Carson Brooks had been hovering near the doorway, unusually subdued throughout my presentation. Now he stepped forward, charts in hand. "I've already ordered the specialty timber you requested, Ms. Chambers. And I've lined up the best crew in the county."

I suppressed a smile at his formality. Since our disastrous hike, Carson had transformed from cocky contractor to model professional—well, almost. The way he avoided meeting my eyes told me he remembered exactly how he'd bolted at the sight of blood, leaving me stranded on that slope.

"Perfect," I replied evenly. "We'll need to start with demolition in the east wing while maintaining guest access to the west. I've outlined the phase schedule here." I slid a folder toward him, maintaining the professional detachment I'd adopted since the hiking fiasco.

Carson accepted it with a nod, flipping through the pages with exaggerated interest. "These timelines are aggressive, but doable. I'll adjust the crew schedules today."

The Ellisons beamed, clearly pleased by our apparent seamless collaboration. If only they knew the awkward truth behind Carson's newfound accommodating attitude.

After finalizing a few more details and setting our next meeting, the couple departed, leaving Carson and me alone in the lodge's small conference room. Silence stretched between us until he cleared his throat.

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