Page 2 of Hot for the Mountain Man

Carson was waiting near a wooden sign that displayed the trail map. He wore a short-sleeve athletic top that showed off muscled arms, plus hiking pants that looked freshly laundered. He flashed a bright smile when I approached, and I had to admit—he was even more handsome in person than he’d appeared online. The healthy tan, the confident posture. Like a living advertisement for some high-end athletic brand.

“Hey, you must be Peyton,” he greeted, stepping forward. “Pleasure to meet you. You find the place okay?”

I nodded, forcing my voice to stay upbeat. “Sure did. Thanks for suggesting this.”

Carson smirked. “Absolutely. The best way to appreciate Ashwood’s vibe is from the trails. Nothing beats the fresh mountain air.”

We set off onto a well-trodden path. Despite the morning’s bright sunshine, a mild chill lingered in the shade of tall pines. The first stretch of trail was surprisingly pleasant—soft dirt underfoot, pockets of sunlight flickering through branches. Carson led with an easy pace, occasionally pointing out interesting views. I tried to absorb details that might inform my lodge design: the interplay of stone, wood, and greenery. I wanted to incorporate as many locally sourced natural materials as possible, and envisioned an aesthetic that would bring the outside in, in fresh and creative new ways.

But after twenty minutes, the gentle trail sloped upward, and I began to feel the burn in my calves. Carson maintained a brisk stride, occasionally turning to ask, “Doing okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” I answered, though my cheeks flushed from more than the sun. My brand-new backpack felt heavier with every step—water bottles, some energy bars, my makeup bag. In hindsight, three different shades of lipstick and a selfie stick for my phone didn’t seem as essential to have on hand.

We pressed on. Carson started talking about his personal achievements: triathlons he nearly won, cabins he singlehandedly renovated, top-of-the-line gear he used. He paused to compliment me on my new windbreaker, calling it “cute” and giving me a wink. But the conversation mostly revolved around him—his big plans for expansions, how the lodge owners valued his skills, how he admired “city folks” who ventured into real wilderness.

My breath grew shallow.Focus, Peyton. It wasn’t that the path was extremely steep, but I was new at this. My boots pinched and sweat trickled down my neck. When Carson veered us off the main trail, I got nervous. He insisted there was a hidden overlook just a short distance away. The ground turned rockier, dotted with roots and slimy patches. My heart pounded, but I forced myself to keep up, ignoring the chafing in my heels.

Then it happened. My foot skidded on a damp rock, and I pitched forward, letting out a strangled yelp as my ankle twisted. Pain flared instantly, and my knee cracked against another rock, scraping open. The world spun for a second as I landed in a tangle of limbs.

Carson let out a panicked shout. “Whoa…are you okay?” But when he saw blood staining my leggings, his face went pale. The scrape was deeper than I thought, trickling bright red down my shin.

“Carson,” I hissed, tears of pain stinging my eyes. “Help me…my ankle…”

But he froze, eyes locked on the blood. His complexion turned chalky. “I…I don’t handle blood well. Hang on, I’ll get help.” He staggered backward, swallowing convulsively. Then, to my shock, he spun around and half-ran, half-tripped downhill. “I’ll be right back,” he called, though it sounded more like a desperate exit line.

I sat there, injured and incredulous. He actually left me. My heart thundered from betrayal and mounting pain. The trail was nowhere in sight, so I couldn’t exactly crawl back alone. My ankle throbbed viciously.Great, Peyton. Great decision, trusting a braggart on an unmarked path.

Shame burned my cheeks, tears blurring my vision. Then I heard a quiet rustle of leaves. A deep voice asked, “Need help?”

I jerked my head up. A tall, broad-shouldered man with windblown dark hair and a faint layer of stubble stood a few feet away, scanning me with calm, assessing eyes. He wore simple cargo pants and a T-shirt, both sporting signs of outdoor wear. A small smokejumper patch decorated his sleeve, telling me he was no casual hiker.

“Uh, yes, please,” I rasped, relief washing over me. “I twisted my ankle. It’s really painful. And my leg’s bleeding.”

He crouched beside me, not even flinching at the sight of blood. “Let me see,” he said. His voice was low, confident, with no hint of panic. He set down a small pack and expertly cleaned the scrape using antiseptic wipes before applying gauze. The entire time, I stared at him in awe. He moved with practiced efficiency, focusing on my injury rather than my embarrassing predicament.

When he finished, he glanced around. “Where’s the guy you were with?”

“He freaked out,” I muttered, cheeks heating. “He said he’d get help, but…just bolted. I’m Peyton, by the way.”

He nodded, brow furrowed. “Grant McAllister. Firefighter out of Ashwood station.” He shifted, carefully touching my ankle. I winced. “Might be a mild sprain. Let’s get you off this slope. Think you can stand with support?”

I swallowed hard, letting him slip an arm around me. I leaned on his solid frame, feeling strangely safe. “Thank you,” I whispered, mortified by how shaky my voice sounded.

Grant didn’t answer, just helped me to my feet, guiding me step by step toward more stable ground. My ankle screamed at every movement, but he steadied me. He smelled faintly of pine and musk. We reached a rough, narrow path, and he navigated it with effortless balance, half-carrying my weight. The difference between him and Carson couldn’t have been clearer: one was all talk, the other all action.

Eventually, we emerged near the base trail, where a small cluster of trees opened to reveal the parking area. My rental car sat in the midday sun, and a wave of relief nearly knocked me over. Thank goodness I could drive—my cut was on the left leg, so at least the gas foot was okay.

Grant eased me against the car, letting me catch my breath. He studied me with those gray eyes that betrayed neither pity nor condescension, just practicality. “You’ll want to ice that ankle, then see if it swells. Keep the cut clean,” he said. “Otherwise, it shouldn’t cause lasting trouble.”

I nodded, brushing hair from my sweaty face. “I can’t thank you enough. I… I didn’t expect this to happen.”

“Clearly,” he murmured, glancing at my brand-new gear with mild disapproval. “Off-trail can be dangerous if you don’t know what you’re doing. Maybe find a better hiking partnernext time. One you can trust. Even better, sign up for some mountaineering classes.”

Heat rushed to my cheeks. “Right,” I muttered, hating how incompetent I must’ve looked. “Lesson learned.”

He stepped back, arms folding. “You okay to drive?”

“I think so,” I said, wincing at a test shift of my weight. “I’ll manage. Thanks, um, Grant.”

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