Page 12 of Hot for the Mountain Man

Inside the cottage, I kicked off my shoes and sank onto the sofa, staring at my phone. What would I even say? "Hi, remember me? The disaster hiker with the inedible cookies?" I groaned at my own ridiculousness.

Sir Buttercup, who had somehow managed to sneak into my cottage yet again, jumped onto the cushion beside me. He stared at me with unblinking amber eyes, his purr rumbling like a small engine.

"What would you text, Buttercup?" I asked, scratching behind his ears. "Something suave and sophisticated, I bet."

He blinked slowly, then settled his considerable bulk against my thigh.

"You're right. Keep it simple and honest."

I took a deep breath and typed out a message:

Hi Grant, it's Peyton Chambers (the disaster hiker with the lethal cookies). I'm helping with the gala decorations and heard you're giving the main speech. Want to practice in a friendly audience? I promise no baking attempts this time—just sandwiches that won't chip teeth. Lunch tomorrow at my Airbnb?

I hit send before I could overthink it, then immediately tossed my phone onto the coffee table as if it had burned me. Sir Buttercup watched this display with feline disdain.

"Don't judge me," I told him. "I'm being neighborly. Professional. He probably won't even respond."

I busied myself with unpacking my work materials, deliberately not checking my phone. When it finally buzzed ten minutes later, I nearly knocked over a stack of fabric samples lunging for it.

Sandwiches sound safer than cookies. What time?

The simple response made me grin like I'd won a design award. I quickly replied:

Noon too early? The cottage has a nice yard for a picnic if the weather holds.

His answer came faster this time:

Noon works. Don't go to any trouble.

I assured him it was no trouble, then sat staring at my phone with a ridiculous smile. Sir Buttercup meowed loudly, perhaps reminding me that I was acting like a teenager with a crush instead of a professional designer.

"You're right," I told the cat, composing myself. "This is just helping a colleague prepare for an important presentation. Totally normal."

Sir Buttercup's expression suggested he wasn't buying it.

The next morning, I woke with a flutter of nervous energy. After showering and changing three times (finally settling on casual jeans and a green blouse that supposedly brought out my eyes), I headed to Rachel's main house to confess my lunch plans—and my complete inability to prepare anything edible.

Rachel was in her kitchen, kneading dough with flour-covered hands, when I knocked on her back door. She looked up with a warm smile that turned knowing when I explained the situation.

"So the handsome smokejumper is coming for lunch, is he?" She wiped her hands on her apron. "And you've promised food that won't send him to the dentist?"

I winced. "I may have overcommitted on my culinary abilities. Any chance you could..."

"Save you from another cooking disaster?" She laughed, her eyes twinkling. "Come on in, dear. We'll put together something simple that even you can't mess up."

Under Rachel's patient guidance, we assembled a picnic lunch that even I had to admit looked impressive: turkey and avocado sandwiches on fresh-baked bread, a colorful pasta salad, fresh fruit, and homemade iced tea. She supervised as I arranged everything in a wicker basket lined with a cheerful checkered cloth.

"There," she declared, handing me a neatly folded blanket. "All you need now is a nice spot in the yard. The apple tree's starting to bloom—that would make a lovely setting."

I hugged her impulsively. "You're a lifesaver, Rachel."

She patted my back. "Just being neighborly." But her smile told me she suspected there was more to this lunch than neighborly assistance.

An hour later, I'd spread the blanket beneath the apple tree in Rachel's backyard, which offered a stunning view of Fire Mountain in the distance. The April air carried just enough warmth to make dining outdoors pleasant, especially in the dappled sunlight beneath the tree's freshly budding branches. A few early blossoms had already opened, adding delicate white accents to the setting.

I'd just finished arranging the food when the crunch of gravel announced a vehicle in the driveway. My heart hammered as I smoothed my blouse and checked my reflection in my phone's camera. "Get a grip, Peyton," I muttered to myself. "It's just lunch."

But when Grant appeared around the corner of the cottage, all attempts at maintaining cool professionalism evaporated. He'd traded his typical work attire for clean dark jeans and a blue button-down that made his eyes seem even more intense. His hair was damp, as if freshly showered, and the hint of stubble along his jaw gave him that rugged edge that made my pulse quicken.

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