Page 14 of Hot for the Mountain Man

"Sorry, I didn't mean to overstep—"

"No, you're right," I cut in, surprising myself. "A story would connect better than statistics." The words felt difficult to form, but somehow necessary. "I lost someone. To a fire that shouldn't have happened."

I hadn't meant to admit that. The confession hung in the air between us, more personal than I'd intended to get. But instead of the awkward sympathy I'd expected, Peyton simply nodded, her eyes reflecting understanding rather than pity.

"Then that's your opening," she said softly. "Not the details, necessarily, but the impact. Why you do what you do. Why it matters."

Something loosened in my chest—not relief exactly, but acknowledgment. "I could do that."

She smiled, encouragement warming her features. "Start there, then move into the prevention tips. People need both the emotional connection and the practical information."

For the next hour, we refined my approach to the speech. Peyton had a knack for this—structuring information, finding narrative threads, suggesting places to pause for impact. As we worked, my initial discomfort faded. The words began to flow more naturally, the message clearer in my mind.

"You're a natural teacher," I remarked as she suggested a stronger transition between two sections.

She looked surprised, then pleased. "I've never thought of it that way. I just like helping people communicate their vision clearly." She tilted her head, considering. "Whether it's a room design or a speech, it's about making connections."

"Connections," I echoed, the word resonating oddly in my chest. I'd spent years avoiding them, retreating to my mountain sanctuary after each shift. Yet here I was, forming one despite myself.

"What about stage fright?" I asked, redirecting. "Got any magic cures for that?"

A mischievous spark lit her eyes. "Well, there's always the classic advice about picturing the audience in their underwear."

Heat crawled up my neck at the thought—particularly since the only audience member I could clearly visualize was sitting right beside me. The unbidden image of Peyton withouther carefully chosen outfit sent a jolt of electricity down my spine.

"I don't think that would help," I managed, my voice rougher than intended.

She laughed, apparently not noticing my sudden discomfort. "Probably not. Better to focus on one friendly face in the crowd." She paused, then added with a hint of shyness, "You could look for me, if you want. I'll be there, cheering you on."

Our eyes met, and something shifted in the space between us. The professional pretense of speech coaching suddenly felt thin, barely concealing whatever this pull between us was becoming.

"I'd like that," I admitted quietly.

Her smile softened. "Tell me about them. The person you lost."

The question should have felt intrusive, but somehow it didn't. Maybe it was the gentleness in her voice, or the fact that she'd offered help without expecting anything in return. Whatever the reason, I found myself talking about Travis—his fearlessness, his terrible jokes, the way he could read a fire's behavior like it was speaking to him.

"We were a team for three years," I said, staring at the distant mountain. "And best friends longer than that. Travis Beck. Best smokejumper I ever knew. Until he wasn't."

"What happened?" she asked softly.

"Timber Ridge. A carelessly discarded cigarette during drought conditions. It grew too fast, changed direction unexpectedly." The familiar knot of guilt tightened in my chest. "I was team lead. Should have pulled us out sooner."

"You couldn't have known," she said, her hand settling lightly on my arm.

"My job to know," I countered, though without the usual edge that accompanied these thoughts. "Anyway, that's why this speech matters. If even one person thinks twice about that cigarette butt or campfire..."

She nodded, understanding in her eyes. "It's worth the discomfort of public speaking."

"Yeah." I glanced at her, noticing a shadow cross her expression. "What about you? You lost someone too?"

She looked startled. "How did you...?"

"The way you reacted. Not with pity. Like you understood."

Peyton drew a deep breath. "My mother. Breast cancer. I was barely two, so I don't really remember her." She traced a pattern on the blanket with her finger. "My father raised me—he's an allergist. Brilliant doctor, but after my mom died, I think part of him died, too. It was like he was just going through the motions of life but not really there. At least, not emotionally."

That explained her immediate bond with Rachel, the way she lit up around the motherly woman. "Is that why you don't cook?" I asked, the connection suddenly clear.

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