Page 15 of Hot for the Mountain Man

She laughed, the melancholy lifting from her features. "That obvious? Yeah, Dad thought frozen dinners and take-out were perfectly acceptable nutrition. I never learned the basics." She gestured to the picnic. "Hence needing Rachel's help with anything more complicated than cereal."

"Those cookies were... memorable," I offered with a slight smile.

"Oh God," she groaned, covering her face. "They were atrocious. I'm surprised you didn't throw them at intruders off your porch."

"Considered it," I admitted, enjoying her laugh. "Would've made effective weapons."

At that moment, a blur of orange fur shot across the blanket, startling us both. A cat running too quickly than one would have thought possible given its size, made a beeline for the remains of our lunch. In its eagerness, it tangled between Peyton's legs as she tried to stand, sending her off-balance.

I moved without thinking, catching her before she could fall. Her weight landed against my chest, my arms instinctively circling her waist. For a breathless moment, we froze in that position, faces inches apart, her hands braced against my shoulders.

"Sorry," she whispered, though she made no move to step away.

"Don't be." My voice emerged lower than usual, almost rough.

Her eyes dropped to my lips, then back up. The air between us seemed to crackle with unspoken tension. I should release her, I knew—step back, maintain that careful distance. But my body refused to cooperate, hands still warm against the small of her back.

The feline bandit chose that moment to knock over the iced tea pitcher, breaking the spell. Peyton stepped back, cheeks flushed, as we both moved to salvage what remained of the picnic. The cat sat nearby, looking entirely too pleased.

"Menace," I muttered, though without heat.

"Rachel warned me," Peyton replied, smiling as she knelt to dab at the spilled tea with napkins. "Apparently food security isn't Sir Buttercup’s strong suit."

"Not sure I'd call him 'security' of any kind."

That made her laugh again, easing some of the tension that had built between us. But not all of it. Something had changed in that near-miss moment—a boundary crossed or at least acknowledged. Neither of us seemed ready to address it directly.

As we packed up the remains of lunch, I found myself rehearsing then discarding potential words. Ask her to the gala? As what—my date? The concept seemed foreign after so long avoiding such entanglements. Yet the thought of walking into that event alone, knowing she'd be there, suddenly seemed unnecessarily stubborn.

"About Saturday," I said finally, as we stood by my truck. "The gala."

She looked up, one hand still clutching the picnic basket. "What about it?"

"Would you—" I paused, unused to this particular brand of vulnerability. "I know you'll be busy with the decorations, but would you want to be my date? For the gala?"

The surprise that flickered across her face almost made me regret asking, but then a warm smile spread across her features.

"I'd love to," she replied, the genuine delight in her voice catching me off guard.

Relief flowed through me. "Good," I said simply, unable to find more eloquent words. "I'll pick you up at six."

As I climbed into my truck, I caught her watching me, that soft smile still playing on her luscious lips. The image stayed with me as I drove back up the mountain, along with the lingering scent of apple blossoms and her perfume, the feeling of her in my arms, the sound of her laugh.

For the first time in years, I was looking forward to a social event—not dreading it. Because she would be there, not as some abstract audience member, but as my date.

My date. The concept still felt strange but not unwelcome. No, not unwelcome at all.

Chapter Seven

Peyton

"A little to the left," I called, directing the volunteer on the ladder. "Perfect! Now secure it there."

The last gossamer panel of blue-green fabric billowed gently before being fastened into place, completing the forest canopy effect across the community center's ceiling. I stepped back, surveying the transformation with a critical designer's eye. What had been a plain, boxy room with fluorescent lighting and institutional beige walls just days ago was now an enchanted woodland scene.

Strands of fairy lights twinkled like stars through the fabric canopy, casting a soft glow over the elegantly arranged tables. Each centerpiece featured a terrarium of local ferns and wildflowers, nestled in beds of moss and surrounded by pillar candles in varying heights. The stage backdrop gradient I'd designed—cool blues flowing into fiery oranges and reds—made a dramatic statement against the surrounding greenery.

"My God, Peyton," Hank breathed, coming to stand beside me. "It's... it's magical."

---