Page 6 of Hot for the Mountain Man

Grant McAllister filled the doorframe, his broad shoulders accentuated by a simple flannel shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows. His dark hair looked slightly damp, as if he'd recently showered, and his expression shifted from cautious to surprised when he recognized me.

"Hi," I blurted, suddenly tongue-tied. Up close, without the distraction of searing pain, I appreciated just how striking he was. Chiseled features, the shadow of stubble along his jaw, and those intense eyes that seemed to see right through me.

"You're the hiker," he said, his deep voice sending an unexpected shiver down my spine. "From the other day."

"Peyton," I supplied. "Peyton Chambers. You helped me when I hurt my ankle?"

"I remember." His gaze dropped briefly to my leg. "How's it healing?"

"Better, thanks to you." I thrust the cookie tin forward like a shield. "I wanted to thank you properly. I brought cookies. I made them myself." I immediately regretted adding that last part as his eyebrows rose skeptically.

After a moment's hesitation, he accepted the tin. "You didn't need to drive all the way up here."

"I wanted to." I shifted my weight, wincing slightly as my ankle protested. "May I come in? Just for a minute?"

He seemed to debate internally before stepping back with a reluctant nod. "Sure."

The cabin's interior was exactly what I'd expected from a bachelor firefighter living alone in the woods: functional, sparse, and desperately in need of a designer's touch or at least a woman’s. A worn leather couch faced a stone fireplace. A basic kitchen area occupied one corner, while a doorway presumably led to a bedroom. The wood walls stood bare except for a framed photograph and what looked like firefighting equipment.

"Nice place," I said automatically, my designer's eye already calculating what it needed. "It has great bones."

Grant set the cookie tin on a small dining table. "It works for me."

I limped further inside, unable to resist assessing the space. "The natural light is fantastic. Have you considered opening up that wall? And this fireplace—it's stunning, but it's crying out to be a focal point."

He folded his arms, looking bemused. "Are you critiquing my cabin?"

Heat flooded my cheeks. "Sorry. Occupational hazard. I'm an interior designer. Here to work on the Ashwood Lodge renovation."

Something flickered in his eyes—interest? "So that's why you were hiking with that contractor."

I grimaced. "Carson Brooks. Yes. Not my finest decision."

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips, transforming his stern features. My breath caught. He looked younger when he almost smiled, less guarded.

"Cookie?" I suggested, gesturing to the tin.

Grant pried off the lid and studied my culinary creations with the same serious expression he might give a potential fire hazard. He selected one, took a tentative bite, and chewed thoughtfully.

"They're..." he began, searching for a diplomatic word.

"Terrible?" I supplied, laughing despite myself. "I warned you I made them."

His lips twitched. "I was going to say, interesting texture."

"That's being kind." I sighed dramatically. "I'm much better at picking paint colors than measuring flour."

He took another bite, maintaining eye contact. "It's the thought that counts."

Something warm unfurled in my chest. Was he actually being sweet? I looked around again, professional instincts kicking in. "Seriously though, this space has so much potential. You could add some textured throws on the couch, maybe a statement piece above the fireplace..."

"I don't need designer touches," he said curtly, though without real annoyance. "It's functional."

"Functional doesn't have to mean forgettable." I moved toward the fireplace, running my fingers along the rough stone. "Simple changes could make this place feel more like a home than a—"

"Temporary shelter?" he finished, something unreadable crossing his face.

I turned to find him watching me intently, cookie forgotten in his hand. The air between us seemed to thicken, crackling with unexpected tension.

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