Page 7 of Hot for the Mountain Man

"Is that how you see it?" I asked softly. "As temporary?"

His gaze dropped, shutters closing. "It's just a cabin."

But something in his tone suggested it was more than that. Rachel's mention of the tragic fire that claimed his teammate echoed in my mind, and I wondered whether Grant had also been involved in the crisis.

"Well," I said, trying to lighten the mood, "if you ever want design advice, I'm in town for a while."

"I'll keep that in mind." His tone made it clear he wouldn't.

An awkward silence stretched between us. I'd overstayed my welcome, pushing into his space with my unsolicited suggestions. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, suddenly self-conscious.

"I should go," I said. "I just wanted to say thank you. For helping me on the mountain."

He nodded, walking me to the door. "Be more careful on those trails. Or better yet, stick to marked paths with reliable companions."

"Are you volunteering?" The words slipped out before I could censor them.

Grant froze, surprise flashing across his features before his expression smoothed into careful neutrality. "I'm hardly tour guide material."

"Maybe not," I agreed, holding his gaze. "But you know these mountains."

Something flickered in his eyes—a spark I couldn't interpret. For a breathless moment, I thought he might actually agree, might offer to show me the proper way to navigate Fire Mountain's trails.

Instead, he stepped back, creating distance. "Take care of that ankle, Peyton."

The way he said my name sent a shiver through me, despite his obvious dismissal. "Right. Well, enjoy the cookies. Or use them as doorstops. They're probably dense enough."

A half-smile ghosted across his face. "They're not that bad."

"Liar," I laughed, stepping onto the porch. "But thanks for being polite about it."

I made my way carefully back to my car, acutely aware of his presence behind me. When I glanced back, he stood in the doorway, watching me with an unreadable expression.

As I drove down the mountain, I replayed our interaction. Grant McAllister clearly preferred his solitude, had little interest in interior design tips, and was merely being polite about my atrocious baking. So why did I feel this persistent pull toward him? And why couldn't I shake the feeling that, despite his hardened exterior, something had sparked between us?

"You're being ridiculous," I told my reflection in the rearview mirror. "He thinks you're a clueless city girl who can't hike or bake."

But as Ashwood came into view below, I made a silent promise to myself. I'd show Grant McAllister there was more to me than designer clothes and urban naivety. I'd prove I belonged in these mountains just as much as he did.

And maybe I'd crack that stoic facade and discover what lay beneath—if I was lucky.

Chapter Four

Grant

"McAllister, you're up!"

Captain Dawson's command snapped me to attention as I adjusted the straps of my fireproof jumpsuit. The midday sun beat down on the training field behind Ashwood's fire station, where a controlled burn scenario awaited. Six of us stood ready, gear checked and double-checked, while the others watched from a safe distance.

I nodded, adrenaline already flooding my system. This was where I thrived—not in awkward encounters with pretty girls bearing inedible cookies, but in the heat and danger of the flames. Where decisions mattered and instinct ruled.

"Rodriguez, Hardy—flank positions," I called to my team members. "Martinez, monitor wind direction. We go on my signal."

The training exercise wasn't a real jump, but the department had constructed a section of forest terrain with controlled flame generators that mimicked wildfire conditions.Even knowing they were simulated, the flames rising from the mock forest floor kicked my instincts into high gear.

I led my team forward, our communication crisp and minimal. The heat intensified as we approached the burn zone, sweat immediately beading under my gear. We utilized the containment techniques that had become second nature after years on the job—creating firebreaks, using suppressant tools, and working with the coordinated precision that kept smoke jumpers alive.

When a sudden surge of fire blocked Martinez's exit route, I reacted without thinking. Three long strides through rising smoke, one arm shielding my face mask, the other reaching out to pull him clear of a falling branch. We stumbled backward together as the branch crashed where he'd stood seconds before.

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