Page 1 of Hot for the Mountain Man

Chapter One

Peyton

I first realized how far I was from Seattle when the last stretch of smooth highway gave way to a winding, two-lane road that cut through endless pine trees. Every mile felt like another step into unfamiliar territory. I’d landed at the Missoula airport only two hours ago, picked up a silver sedan from the rental counter, and set my GPS for Ashwood, Montana—a place I’d never heard of until three weeks ago. Now, with early-spring sunlight flickering through the forest canopy, I caught glimpses of distant peaks still capped with snow. The scenery was breathtaking, if also mildly intimidating.

“This better be worth it,” I muttered, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. I was an interior designer from Seattle—a city girl with a love for color palettes and architectural detail, not steep mountain trails. But I’d been hired by the owners of a small mountain lodge in Ashwood to oversee their big renovation project, the biggest job I’d landed in months. I’d pitched them a modern-rustic concept that might revitalize the outdated property. In return, they’d promised me creative freedom and a decent paycheck. Hard to refuse, right?

A battered sign announced I was nearing the Ashwood town limits. I eased off the gas, scanning the landscape. A handful of quaint buildings appeared around the bend—general store, diner, real estate office, maybe a small pharmacy. Beyond them, Fire Mountain towered, stark and majestic against a pale-blue sky. I almost forgot my own nerves at the sight of it.

My GPS chimed to turn right onto a gravel driveway just past a tiny wooden sign that read “Jennings Airbnb.” I’d made arrangements to stay here during my visits, which would probably last a couple of weeks on and off. Not that I planned to move to Ashwood—just a series of extended stays until the remodel was well underway.

Pulling in, I spotted a modest one-story home with green shutters, surrounded by a neat yard still shaking off winter’s chill. Flower pots lined the porch, though no blossoms had appeared yet. A separate little cottage was tucked behind the main house, presumably the unit I’d be renting. Gravel crunched beneath my tires as I parked.

Stepping out, I stretched. The air smelled startlingly fresh, like pine needles and damp earth. Not a whiff of espresso or car exhaust—my typical Seattle atmosphere. I grabbed my rolling suitcase from the trunk, scanning the porch for signs of life. An older woman I assumed was Rachel Jennings emerged from the house, beaming widely. She had a motherly figure wrapped in a floral apron, and in her arms sprawled a colossal orange-and-white cat.

“Hello there!” she called, waddling toward me with the cat in tow. His belly nearly spilled over her forearm. I tried not to laugh. “You must be Peyton Chambers.”

“That’s me,” I said, offering a polite smile. “Thanks so much for having me.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble, dear. I’m Rachel Jennings.” She patted the cat’s plump flank. “And this handsome fellow is Sir Buttercup. Don’t let his lazy looks fool you—he’s a menace when food’s involved.”

Sir Buttercup blinked at me, disinterested, before yawning. I bit my lip to keep from giggling. “He’s…quite impressive.”

Rachel chuckled. “He likes to think so. Well, let’s get you settled. The cottage is right back here.”

We headed along a short path past a small vegetable patch. Rachel carried Sir Buttercup effortlessly, like he weighed no more than a throw pillow. She chattered about the property: how she once ran a daycare, how she keeps the Airbnb for extra income and for the joy of meeting new folks.

“My husband’s been gone some years now,” she explained softly as we rounded a corner. “But I keep busy. You’ll find I like to bake and fuss over guests. Holler if you need anything.”

I nodded, feeling a pang of sympathy. Something about her warm, open demeanor put me at ease. We reached the cottage—a snug single-story unit with a tiny porch. Rachel set Sir Buttercup down, and he meowed in protest, plopping onto the wooden boards like a beached whale.

Rachel unlocked the door, stepping inside. “It’s small but up to date. One bedroom, one bath, plus a living area and kitchenette.” She gestured grandly at the simple but clean layout. Cream-colored walls, wood beams across the ceiling, a comfy sofa, and a short hallway leading to what I assumed was the bedroom. “I keep it stocked with cookware and toiletries, plus I do fresh linens every few days.”

I let my gaze wander, pleasantly surprised. The place had a rustic vibe but was clearly well-maintained. A window over thesink revealed a partial view of Fire Mountain’s slope, which felt oddly comforting. This could be cozy, I decided.

“Thank you, Rachel,” I said sincerely. “This is lovely. So much more personality than a chain hotel.”

She brightened. “I’m glad you think so. Now, if you find yourself hungry, I’m just a knock away. Don’t be shy.”

Sir Buttercup lumbered in after us, sniffing around the floor like he owned the place. Rachel gently nudged him back outside with her foot. “Out you go, mister. Let Peyton settle first.”

He responded with a forlorn meow but eventually waddled onto the porch and flopped down. I tried not to laugh at his dramatic exit. Rachel gave me one last wave, telling me to text if I needed fresh towels, then stepped back outside. Alone in the cottage, I exhaled, dropping my suitcase near the couch.All right, Peyton, I told myself.Time to get professional.

My phone buzzed. Glancing down, I recognized a local number I’d saved earlier: Carson Brooks, the contractor in charge of the main hotel’s structural upgrades. I’d been in email contact with him but never met him in person.

Carson:Hey Peyton, welcome to Ashwood. I heard you arrived. Want a quick tour of the area? Maybe a casual hike on Fire Mountain tomorrow afternoon? Good chance to get inspired for the lodge design.

A slow grin tugged at my lips. That had to be an invitation of sorts, right? I’d peeked at a photo of him online—tall, broad-shouldered, all-American grin. A far cry from the nerdy architects or aged contractors I usually encountered. Maybe this wouldn’t be such a bad place after all.

Me:Thanks, Carson! A hike sounds great. I’m up for it. Let me know time and place.

He replied almost instantly with details: meet at the Fire Mountain trailhead around noon. I typed a cheery acknowledgment, then looked around the cottage again. A day hike, huh? The most “outdoorsy” thing I’d done in Seattle was maybe a weekend farmers market. But if getting a little dirt on my boots improved synergy with the lead contractor, I’d do it. This lodge project was important to my portfolio. I refused to let some scenic trails intimidate me.

The next morning, I woke early to a beam of sunlight cutting across my bed, the crisp mountain air stirring the curtains. I inhaled deeply, half expecting smog or city noise as usual. Instead, birds chirped, and the quiet hush felt like another world. I padded into the kitchenette, found coffee grounds, and brewed a small pot. The aroma filled the cozy space. While sipping, I flicked through outfit ideas on my phone. What does one wear for a “casual hike”? Rachel’s mention of an outfitters store downtown came to mind.

An hour later, I parked in front of Ashwood Outdoor Supply, a small shop with racks of boots and jackets visible through the window. Inside, I approached a bored-looking teenager behind the counter, who half-heartedly recommended a pair of sturdy hiking boots, moisture-wicking socks, a windbreaker, and a basic backpack. The color choices were abysmal—mostly khaki or forest green. I ended up with items in drab olive, a color that didn’t do a thing for my pale skin tone.

By noon, I’d swapped my usual stylish blouse for a plain tee and the windbreaker. My brand-new boots felt stiff, but hopefully they’d hold up. I drove out to Fire Mountain’s trailhead, noticing a scattering of cars in the makeshift parkingarea. The mountain’s peak soared above, dusted with lingering snow in the highest altitudes, while the slopes near the base looked green and inviting.

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