Page 5 of Hot for the Mountain Man

Rachel reappeared with a muffin on a delicate china plate. "That beast bothering you?" She clicked her tongue at the cat. "Sir Buttercup, leave our guest alone."

Sir Buttercup responded by stretching, casually extending one paw toward my breakfast. I laughed despite myself. "He's fine. Just plotting grand larceny."

Rachel set the muffin beside me, then picked up my nearly empty teacup. As she turned back toward the kitchen, Sir Buttercup made his move. With surprising agility for his bulk, he lunged for my toast, snatching it in his mouth and leaping off my lap in one fluid motion.

"Hey!" I yelped, wincing as my ankle protested the sudden movement.

"Sir Buttercup!" Rachel spun around, hands on hips. "You thieving little—"

The cat darted under a side table, toast clamped firmly in his jaws, amber eyes gleaming with triumph.

"I swear, that animal..." Rachel shook her head. "Sorry, dear. I'll make you more toast."

"It's alright," I assured her, unable to hold back a laugh at the absurdity. "I've still got this." I lifted the muffin, inhaling its sweet aroma.

For the first time since the hiking debacle, a genuine smile tugged at my lips. There was something oddly comforting about being fussed over by Rachel and terrorized by her kleptomaniac cat. It felt...homey in a way I wasn’t used to, having lost my own mother to breast cancer before I turned two. And that left me to be raised by my father—an allergist with as poor of a bedside manner at home as he had at work. Since I was never allowed to have a pet, I’m sure I was likely much more tolerant of Sir Buttercup’s antics than Rachel was.

As I nibbled the muffin—still warm from the oven and positively heavenly—a thought struck me. Grant had helped me without hesitation, asking nothing in return. Shouldn't I at least thank him properly?

"Rachel," I called, an idea forming. "Do you have a cookie recipe that's foolproof? And I meancompletelyidiot-proof?"

She appeared in the doorway, wiping flour-dusted hands on her apron. "Planning to bake, are we?"

I grinned ruefully. "I thought I might try. As a thank-you gift."

Her eyes sparkled with knowing amusement. "For that handsome smokejumper who rescued you?"

Heat crept up my neck. "Just being polite."

"Mmhmm." Her smile widened. "Well, I've got a chocolate chip recipe even a child could manage. Though I should warn you—the oven in your cottage runs hot."

An hour later, back in my own kitchen, I stared dubiously at the ingredients Rachel had provided. Baking had never been my thing, since I’d never learned how to cook. Despite being a doctor, Dad found nothing wrong with nuking frozen food or ordering takeout for all our meals. I could coordinate fabric swatches and wall textures with my eyes closed, but flour and sugar were foreign territory. Still, how hard could it be to follow a recipe?

Surprisingly hard, as it turned out.

By the time I slid the first batch into the oven, flour dusted every surface of the kitchenette, including my hair. I'd somehow gotten vanilla extract on my phone, and a suspicious brown smear—hopefully melted chocolate and not something accidentally transferred from Sir Buttercup—decorated my forehead according to my reflection.

When the timer dinged, I pulled out a tray of cookies that could generously be described as "rustic." They weren't exactly round, and the edges were darker than the centers, but the aroma was promising. I poked one experimentally. It seemed...mostly edible. Considering my history, I counted it as a success.

While the cookies cooled, I cleaned up the disaster zone and changed into a casual but flattering outfit: jeans that hugged my curves and a soft blue sweater that brought out the green in my eyes.Not that I was trying to impress anyone, I told myself. Just being presentable.

I carefully arranged the least misshapen cookies in a tin Rachel had loaned me, then faced my next challenge—finding Grant's cabin. Rachel had given me vague directions—"past the fire station, up the north service road, look for the turnoff with the fallen pine"—but I suspected I'd need more specific guidance.

"Good thing I've got a full tank of gas," I muttered, grabbing my purse and the cookie tin.

The drive up Fire Mountain's winding roads proved more challenging than anticipated. My rental sedan wasn't built for unpaved terrain, and I winced at every bump that jarred my tender ankle. After taking a wrong turn that led to a scenic overlook rather than any cabin, I spotted an elderly man checking his mailbox near a weathered house.

Rolling down my window, I called out, "Excuse me! I'm looking for Grant McAllister's place?"

He squinted at me suspiciously. "McAllister? The firefighter?" When I nodded, he jerked his thumb toward a barely visible dirt road. "Up that way, can't miss it. Only cabin that far up."

I thanked him and carefully maneuvered onto what barely qualified as a road. The sedan protested as we climbed, tires slipping occasionally on loose gravel. Just when I began to wonder if I'd misunderstood the directions, the trees thinned to reveal a small clearing. A modest log cabin perched at its edge, smoke curling from the chimney.

My heart skipped as I parked beside a large pickup truck. What was I doing here? This was crazy. I'd met the man once, under embarrassing circumstances. Now I was showing up unannounced at his remote home with questionable baked goods?

"Too late to back out now," I murmured, eyeing the cookie tin on the passenger seat. "He's already heard your car."

I grabbed the tin, took a steadying breath, and stepped out, careful not to put too much weight on my injured ankle. The mountain air felt sharp in my lungs as I approached the cabin's front door. Before I could knock, it swung open.

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