Page 13 of Hot for the Mountain Man

"Hi," I called, waving perhaps too enthusiastically. "You found the place okay?"

He nodded, approaching with that measured stride that spoke of confidence and restraint. "Rachel was out front.Pointed me around back." His gaze took in the picnic setup, one eyebrow lifting slightly. "You went to trouble."

"No trouble," I assured him, gesturing to the blanket. "Rachel helped with the food. I figured it was safer that way."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips as he lowered himself onto the blanket, keeping a respectable distance between us. "Smart decision."

"I learn from my mistakes," I replied lightly, handing him a plate. "Turkey sandwich? I promise it contains zero rocks disguised as chocolate chips."

That earned me an actual chuckle—a low, rich sound that sent warmth cascading through me. "Appreciate that." He accepted the plate, our fingers brushing briefly in the exchange.

As we began to eat, an awkward silence threatened to descend, but I was determined not to let it. This might be my only chance to help Grant prepare for his speech—and to spend time with him before the gala. And I wasn't going to waste it.

Chapter Six

Grant

I hadn't expected to agree to lunch. When the text from Peyton lit up my phone the night before, my first instinct was to decline. Public speaking was bad enough without an audience for my practice attempts. But something about her self-deprecating humor about those terrible cookies had made me smile, and before I could think better of it, I'd accepted.

Now, sitting on a checkered blanket beneath an apple tree in Rachel Jennings' backyard, I was alternating between regretting my decision and being oddly glad I'd come. The picnic setup was nicer than I'd anticipated—clearly, she'd put thought into it. And the food, which she'd immediately credited to Rachel, was genuinely good.

"So," Peyton said, breaking the silence that had settled between us, "the speech. How's it coming?"

I swallowed a bite of sandwich, buying time. "It's...coming."

She grinned. "That convincing, huh?"

"Not my thing," I admitted. "Standing in front of people, talking."

"I get that." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "My first client presentation, I was so nervous I spilled coffee all over my carefully prepared material samples."

That detail surprised me. She struck me as someone naturally comfortable in social situations—polished, confident. "What happened?"

Her green eyes lit up. "The client loved how the fabrics looked with the 'intentional' coffee stain and asked for the whole design to incorporate the aesthetic." She laughed. "Sometimes our worst mistakes lead to unexpected opportunities."

Like getting lost on a hiking trail and meeting someone who made your pulse quicken?I pushed the thought aside, focusing on my sandwich.

"Want to practice your speech?" she asked. "I'm a great audience—supportive but honest."

I hesitated, looking past her to the distant outline of Fire Mountain. The truth was, I hadn't prepared much of anything. Dawson had given me bullet points, but the thought of stringing them into coherent sentences in front of Ashwood's elite made my stomach clench.

"Not sure there's much to practice," I said finally. "Just facts and figures about wildfire prevention."

"Facts and figures can be compelling with the right delivery," she pointed out. "What's the main message you want people to take away?"

The question caught me off guard—not what I would say, but what I wanted people to hear. I considered it for a moment. "That most wildfires are preventable. That carelessness costs lives." The image of Travis flashed through my mind—his cockygrin, his skill in the field, the empty casket they'd buried when there wasn't enough left to recover.

"That's powerful," Peyton said quietly, as if sensing the weight behind my words. "People will listen to that, especially coming from someone with your experience."

I studied her, searching for any sign she was simply being polite, but her expression held nothing but genuine interest. Reluctantly, I reached for the folder I'd brought with me.

"Dawson gave me these talking points," I said, opening it between us on the blanket.

She moved closer to see, her shoulder nearly touching mine. The scent of her perfume—something light and floral—mingled with the apple blossoms overhead. I forced myself to focus on the papers, not the warmth of her beside me.

"These are good foundations," she observed, scanning the bullet points, "but they're a bit dry. What if you opened with a personal story? Something that illustrates why this matters to you?"

I tensed. The suggestion touched too close to what I kept buried—my buddy, Timber Ridge, the guilt that still surfaced in my nightmares. She noticed my reaction immediately.

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