Page 3 of Hot for the Mountain Man

For a moment, I thought he might say something else, but the fleeting spark in his eyes vanished behind a stoic mask. “Take care,” he replied gruffly. Then, before I could protest or ask for his number—something silly like that—he turned and strode toward the tree line, disappearing back into the forest without fanfare.

I stood there, heart pounding, replaying the feel of his arm supporting me. My leg ached and my pride felt battered, yet a peculiar warmth lingered in my chest. Who was this mountain man? He’d just rescued me with calm efficiency and left as though it were no big deal.

Shaking off my daze, I gingerly climbed behind the wheel. Carson was nowhere in sight—big surprise. Starting the engine, I pressed the gas slowly, determined to make it back to the Airbnb without further mishaps. My thoughts whirled with images of Grant’s steady presence, the strong line of his jaw, the quiet assurance in his touch.

He was so… different from anyone I’d met in my Seattle circles. Rugged and laconic, yes, but clearly skilled, brave, and not easily rattled. I swallowed, heat pulsing through me that had nothing to do with the ankle sprain.

“Get a grip, Peyton,” I muttered. “You almost died out there. Well, not died, but… you were in trouble.” Yet I couldn't stop replaying every detail of what happened.

As I drove slowly back into Ashwood, I realized with a shaky laugh that I’d come here thinking I was just going to put my degree to use updating the lodge’s interior. Instead, on day one, I’d nearly gotten lost in the wilderness and found myself rescued by a smokejumper who was the embodiment of the rugged mountain aesthetic I intended to replicate in design.Maybe I could glean real inspiration from him,I thought wryly.

My cheeks flushed at the mental image of seeing him again. I could apologize for my cluelessness and maybe offer to repay him in some way for helping me. Because one thing was certain: I owed Grant McAllister. Big time.

The more I replayed his low, unhurried voice and the firm press of his arms around me, the more determined I became to find him again. Yes, I was only in town to fix up a hotel—but who said I couldn’t satisfy my burning curiosity about the smokejumper who’d turned a humiliating mishap into the hottest encounter I’d had in far too long?

Chapter Two

Grant

I steered my pickup away from the Fire Mountain trailhead, morning light dancing across the windshield. Usually, tourists I helped on the trails faded from memory as soon as they were out of sight. Patch them up, point them toward safety, move on. Simple.

But this woman with the brand-new boots and wide eyes stuck in my thoughts like a burr on denim.

Peyton.Even her name lingered on my tongue. She'd been so ridiculously unprepared that it was almost adorable. What really got under my skin, though, was how that spineless jackass had abandoned her the moment she scraped her leg. Who does that? As I'd loaded her into her car, I couldn't shake the urge to track down the coward and explain mountain etiquette with my fists.

Not my problem, I reminded myself, taking the turnoff toward my cabin. Years of keeping to myself had taught me the value of staying uninvolved. The last time I'd tried anything more than casual conversation, I'd ended up with a shattered peace I'd spent months rebuilding.

The familiar rumble of tires on rough terrain soothed my irritation as I navigated the single-lane path winding through dense pines. This solitude—this was what I'd chosen. The cabin perched halfway up the mountainside represented everything I needed: distance from complications, room to breathe, and blessed quiet after the adrenaline-fueled chaos of smokejumping.

I killed the engine in front of my modest timber home and sat for a moment, listening to the tick of the cooling motor. The silence that followed usually centered me. Today it felt strange, as if Peyton's breathless "thank you" still echoed in the air between trees.

"She's just another tourist," I muttered, slamming the truck door with more force than necessary.

The crisp air filled my lungs as I strode toward the cabin. A hint of lingering winter chill rode the breeze, a reminder that fire season would arrive soon enough. Plenty to focus on without dwelling on some city girl with the softest damn skin I'd accidentally brushed while bandaging her leg.

Inside, I tossed my pack onto the couch and rolled my shoulders. The place smelled of woodsmoke and yesterday's coffee—familiar and uncomplicated. I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, downing half of it in one go.Work. Focus on work. Captain Dawson had been dropping hints about the upcoming Fire & Ice Fundraiser Gala. Some fancy event at the community center where we'd be expected to wear dress uniforms, schmooze with donors, and talk about forest safety.

My phone buzzed. The text from Dawson confirmed tomorrow's briefing at the station. I sent back a quick acknowledgment before dropping the phone on the kitchen counter. At least the job was straightforward: assess risks, contain fires, survive. No mixed signals or confused emotions.

But Peyton's face kept appearing in my mind—the flash of vulnerability when she tried to stand on her injured ankle, her attempt to mask embarrassment with bravado. She wasn't just some helpless hiker. There was something about her...

"Knock it off, McAllister," I growled, striding across the living room to check the generator out back. Busywork might chase away the memory of how perfectly her curvy frame had fit against mine as I'd half-carried her down the trail. Damn, it had obviously been way too long since I'd had a woman in my bed.

The generator hummed its mechanical song, in perfect working order despite my need for distraction. I circled the cabin, checking the foundation, the gutters, the firewood stack—anything to occupy my hands. But with each task completed, my mind circled back to her.

I couldn't pinpoint why she'd gotten under my skin so fast. Maybe it was the striking contrast between her obvious city polish and the wilderness setting. Or perhaps how quickly she'd tried to recover her dignity after being abandoned by that pathetic excuse for a hiking partner. Either way, I needed to forget her. This mountain had taught me exactly how painful attachments could become.

With nothing left to fix, I dragged a folding chair onto the porch and dropped into it, stretching my legs before me. The view never disappointed—endless green forest rolling toward distant peaks, the sky an impossible blue. I'd chosen this spot after losing Travis to the Timber Ridge fire. After watching my closest friend become nothing but a statistic in the annual firefighter memorial service, I'd retreated here to lick my wounds.

And then there was Naomi. My last attempt at romance had fizzled dramatically when she'd finally given up trying to breach my defenses."You're like talking to a damn wall,"she'dsaid before walking out. She wasn't wrong, but her departure had reinforced my determination to keep relationships superficial at best.

My phone chimed again. This time it was a group text from Hank Masterson about the Fire & Ice Fundraiser Gala. As a board member of the Ashwood Mountain Conservation Fund and this year's event coordinator, Hank was relentless about making the gala ‘the social event of the season.’ The message informed me that Captain Dawson had volunteered me to give a short speech on wildfire prevention.Just great. Nothing I loved more than standing in front of Ashwood's elite in a stiff dress uniform, talking about how quickly a cigarette butt or untended campfire could destroy thousands of acres, not to mention risking lives in the process.

I tapped back a reluctant confirmation, then tossed the phone aside. My gaze strayed to the photograph visible through the window—me and Travis after tackling a controlled burn, grinning like idiots who thought we were invincible. The memory squeezed my chest, but not as sharply as it once had. Time was doing its work, I supposed.

Sighing, I headed inside to fix something resembling dinner. The beef stew from the can wasn't exactly gourmet, but it would do. As I stirred it on the stove, I realized my appetite had vanished, replaced by a restlessness I couldn't shake.

Peyton probably wouldn't even stay in Ashwood long. She'd heal up, finish whatever brought her to town, and head back to her life. And I'd stay here, exactly where I belonged.

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