Page 4 of Hot for the Mountain Man

So why couldn't I stop wondering what she was doing right now?

I forced down the lukewarm stew, then rinsed the bowl. The walls of the cabin felt suddenly confining, pushing in on me from all sides. I needed to move, to burn off this strange energy.

Minutes later, I hit the trail behind my place, jogging at a punishing pace up the incline. Sweat quickly soaked my shirt as my boots pounded dirt and pine needles. Usually, running cleared my head, the physical exertion driving out intrusive thoughts. But today, the harder I pushed, the more vividly I recalled the way Peyton's face had lit with relief when I'd appeared on that slope.

"Damn it," I panted, pushing harder until my lungs burned and my thighs screamed in protest.

After thirty minutes of self-torture, I circled back to the cabin, chest heaving. I braced my hands on my knees, gulping air and wondering what the hell was wrong with me. Five minutes of helping a stranger shouldn't be affecting me like this.

I peeled off my sweat-soaked clothes and stepped into the shower, cranking the water hot enough to steam up the small bathroom. As the spray pounded my shoulders, I closed my eyes and immediately regretted it. Yep, there she was again—Peyton with her wide eyes and soft "thank you" that somehow sounded more intimate than it had any right to.

Heat surged through me that had nothing to do with the water temperature. I twisted the knob to cold, gritting my teeth as icy water shocked my system. This was ridiculous. I hadn't been this distracted over a woman since... well, maybe ever.

After toweling off, I tugged on clean clothes and checked my phone. Another text from the station about tomorrow's schedule. I confirmed my availability, though my mind was already wandering back to wondering if Peyton was icing her ankle properly.

The remainder of daylight slipped away as I puttered around the cabin, trying to focus on practical matters. The living room window framed Fire Mountain's slope, a view that usually brought me peace. Tonight, I found myself scanning thetrails visible from here, half expecting to glimpse a flash of her windbreaker among the trees.

"This is insane," I muttered, switching off the lamp. The cabin fell into darkness, silvered only by moonlight filtering through the windows.

I stretched out on my bed, folding my arms behind my head and staring at the ceiling. Through the open window came the gentle murmur of wind through pines—usually my favorite lullaby. Tonight it sounded like whispers, as if the forest itself was mocking my sudden fixation on a woman I'd known for all of ten minutes.

She's not for you, I reminded myself. City girl with her fancy clothes and innocent eyes. She probably has some corporate job waiting back home, a sleek apartment, a life that would never mesh with my mountain existence. And even if she didn't—even if by some bizarre chance I'd actually see her again—I'd learned my lesson about letting people get close.

When Travis died, part of me went with him. Watching that fire claim him had carved something essential from my chest. And Naomi's departure, while less tragic, confirmed what I already suspected: I wasn't built for the give-and-take that lasting relationships required.

Better to accept that some men weren't meant for happy endings. Some of us worked better alone, focused on the job, on the mountain, on the next rescue. That was enough. It had to be.

But as sleep finally dragged me under, my last thought wasn't of past losses or solitary contentment. It was of Peyton's smile when I'd helped her into her car—grateful, yes, but with something else sparking behind it. Something that looked dangerously like interest.

And God help me, I wanted to see that look again.

Chapter Three

Peyton

My ankle throbbed in rhythm with my heartbeat as I propped it on Rachel's floral ottoman, ice pack balancing precariously on the swollen flesh. Two days had passed since my disastrous hike with Carson, and the memory still made me cringe. The way he'd bolted at the sight of blood—and the unexpected appearance of my rugged rescuer—kept replaying in my mind like some bizarre rom-com meet-cute gone wrong.

"More tea, sweetie?" Rachel hovered near my elbow, concern etched in the lines around her eyes. She'd been fussing over me since I'd limped back to the cottage, her motherly instincts on full display.

"I'm good, thanks," I said, attempting a reassuring smile. "Really, it's just a mild sprain. The doctor at the urgent care clinic said I'll be fine in a few days."

"Well, you just keep that leg elevated." She tucked a crocheted blanket around my legs. "I've got a fresh batch of blueberry muffins coming out soon."

I opened my mouth to decline, but my stomach growled traitorously. Rachel's baking had become my guilty pleasure during recovery. "That would be lovely," I conceded.

As she bustled back to her kitchen—she'd insisted I recuperate in her main house rather than alone in the cottage—I checked my phone. No messages from Carson. No surprise there. The coward hadn't even bothered to check if I'd survived the trek down the mountain. The lodge project loomed in my mind; I'd need to face him eventually, but for now, I was secretly relieved for the excuse to delay.

My thoughts drifted instead to Grant McAllister. The smokejumper with the storm-gray eyes and capable hands who'd bandaged my leg without flinching. I'd asked Rachel about him yesterday, trying to sound casual. Her eyes had twinkled knowingly when she revealed he lived alone in a cabin up on Fire Mountain's northern slope.

"Keeps to himself, that one," she'd said. "Been that way since the Timber Ridge tragedy. Lost a teammate, you know."

I hadn't known, but the information had colored my perception of his gruff demeanor. There was a story there—pain etched into the hard lines of his face.

A heavyweight landed on my lap without warning, nearly toppling the ice pack. "Sir Buttercup!" I wheezed as twenty pounds of feline settled comfortably across my thighs.

The massive orange cat blinked innocently up at me, purring like a diesel engine. His whiskers twitched as he eyed my abandoned toast on the side table.

"Don't even think about it," I warned, scratching behind his ears. He leaned into my touch, but his gaze remained fixed on the buttered toast. "You're not as subtle as you think."

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