Page 11 of Hot for the Mountain Man

"Listen, about the other day—"

"It's fine," I cut him off, gathering my materials. "We don't need to discuss it."

"I just want to say—"

"Really, Carson." I met his gaze directly for the first time that day. "What matters now is delivering this project on time and on budget. That's what we should focus on."

His shoulders slumped slightly with relief. "Of course. Absolutely." He hesitated, then added, "I've pulled some strings to get those custom fixtures you wanted. They'll arrive next week instead of next month."

I nodded, surprised by his initiative. "That's...helpful. Thank you."

"Anything else you need, just say the word." He gathered his own papers, clearly eager to escape the lingering discomfort between us. "I've got your back on this."

I bit back a reply about where his "back-having" had been on the mountain trail, instead offering a professional smile. "I appreciate that."

After Carson departed, I lingered in the conference room, gazing out at the view of Fire Mountain visible through the windows. The project was moving forward better than I'd hoped—which meant I'd be spending more time in Ashwood than originally planned. The thought sent an unexpected flutter through my chest that had nothing to do with interior design.

My phone buzzed with a text from Hank Masterson:

Community center ready for final decorating touches whenever you are! Can't wait to see the Forest Awakening come to life!

I smiled at his enthusiasm. When I'd arrived at the community center three days ago to assess the space for the gala, Hank had practically bounced with excitement as he explained his vision for the Fire & Ice Fundraiser. His passion for the event had been infectious, and I'd found myself volunteering to help transform the plain space into something magical. With the lodge renovations now ahead of schedule thanks to Carson's eager-to-please attitude, I had time to devote to the gala preparations.

I gathered my things and headed for the community center, my mind already shifting to the event design. The Fire & Ice Gala was only two days away, and while my team had already installed most of the major elements, I wanted to oversee the finishing touches personally.

The community center was buzzing with activity when I arrived—volunteers hanging fairy lights, florists arranging centerpieces, and Hank in the middle of it all, clipboard in hand. The transformation was already taking shape: the ceiling draped with sheer fabrics in shades of blue and green, giving the impression of being beneath a forest canopy, while strategic lighting cast dappled patterns resembling sunlight through leaves.

"Peyton!" Hank called, waving frantically. "Thank goodness you're here. We've got a lighting issue with the stage."

I followed him to the small platform where the speeches and presentations would take place. The backdrop I'd designed featured a gradient representing the transition from ice to fire—cool blues at the bottom flowing upward into warm oranges and reds. The problem was immediately apparent: the lighting made the colors wash out rather than pop.

"Let's adjust those spots," I suggested, pointing to the fixtures overhead. "Move them about fifteen degrees and increase the intensity."

As a volunteer climbed a ladder to make the adjustments, Hank flipped through his clipboard. "Oh, did I mention? We've finalized the speaker lineup. Captain Dawson will give a brief introduction, then Grant McAllister will deliver the main address on wildfire prevention."

My heart skipped at the mention of Grant's name. "Grant's giving the speech? Not just demonstrating equipment?"

"He's our star smokejumper," Hank replied, oblivious to my reaction. "Nobody knows more about wildfire dangers than Grant. Though between you and me," he lowered his voice conspiratorially, "he's not thrilled about it. Public speaking isn't exactly his thing."

I could imagine Grant's discomfort all too well—the mountain man forced into a social spotlight. The image of him standing rigidly behind a podium, uncomfortable in formal attire but determined to do his duty, brought a fond smile to my lips.

"There," the volunteer called down, having adjusted the lights. "How's that?"

The backdrop now glowed with vibrant color, the transition from cool to warm tones striking against the forest-inspired decorations surrounding it.

"Perfect," I approved. "That's exactly the impact we need."

Hank beamed. "It's all coming together beautifully! This will be the most memorable gala Ashwood has ever seen."

As we continued our walkthrough, checking each element of the design, my thoughts kept returning to Grant. Would he be prepared for his speech? Did he have what he needed? The memory of his stoic demeanor in his cabin made me wonder how he was handling the pressure of addressing Ashwood's elite.

"Hank," I asked casually as we examined the table arrangements, "do you have contact information for the speakers? I should double-check the lighting preferences for each of them."

"Of course!" He flipped through his clipboard, then tore off a sheet and handed it to me. "Here's everyone's info. Grant's probably the one you'll have trouble reaching—man barely answers his phone. But text works better than calling."

I tucked the paper into my pocket, trying to appear nonchalant. "Thanks. Just want to make sure everyone looks their best under the lights."

After finalizing a few more details with Hank, I headed back to Rachel's cottage, the paper with Grant's number burning a hole in my pocket. The rational part of my brain argued that texting him was unnecessary—the lighting would be fine regardless. But another part of me, the part that kept replaying our brief encounters, wanted an excuse to connect again before the gala.

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