Page 4 of Stranded with the Mountain Man

Helen beams. "I knew you'd help. I'll tell her right away."

While Helen goes back inside, I clear off my passenger seat, moving my SAR equipment to the back. The snowfall is picking up already, the flakes smaller and driven by increasing wind—never a good sign.

The lodge doors open, and Elisa Fox emerges, looking considerably less composed than before. She's carrying her planner binder and rolling a small suitcase, with her phone pressed between her ear and shoulder.

"I understand that, Mrs. Harrington, but the weather situation is beyond my control. I'll send you the venue photos tonight and—yes, I know how important—of course I'll call as soon as—"

The connection seems to cut out as she approaches my truck. Her expression tightens as she looks from her phone to me to the increasingly heavy snowfall.

"Ready?" I ask, not bothering to hide my impatience.

She takes a deep breath, visibly collecting herself. "Thank you for this. Helen says you have internet at your cabin?"

"Satellite. Works until the storm gets too heavy."

She nods, all business despite her obvious frustration at my primitive internet connection. "Then yes, I'm ready."

As she climbs into my truck, the snow starts falling in earnest, and my radio crackles with the first road closure notification. Davidson Pass is already shutting down. We're right on the edge of the weather window.

"Buckle up," I tell her, starting the engine. "It's going to be a rough ride."

The look she gives me says she's already figured that out, and not just about the drive.

three

Elisa

I'mgrippingthedoorhandle so hard my knuckles have gone white, but I refuse to make a sound as Jace's truck navigates what barely qualifies as a road. The snow is falling in hypnotic sheets now, the windshield wipers fighting a losing battle against the onslaught. Every few seconds, the tires slip slightly before regaining traction, each small slide sending my heart into my throat.

"You doing okay over there?" Jace asks, his voice surprisingly calm.

"Fine," I lie through clenched teeth. What I really want to say is that nothing about this situation is fine. My perfectly organized schedule is in shambles. My high-profile clients are probably already considering other wedding planners. And I'm stuck in a truck with a mountain man who clearly thinks I'm some helpless city girl.

But then I glance over at him and momentarily forget my complaints. His profile is illuminated by the dim glow of thedashboard—strong jawline covered in that dark beard, brow furrowed in concentration as he navigates the treacherous conditions. His hands grip the steering wheel with casual confidence—large, capable hands with calluses I noticed when he helped load my suitcase. They're the hands of someone who builds things, fixes things. So different from the manicured executives I usually work with.

I quickly look away, annoyed at myself. This is hardly the time for... whatever that thought was.

"Almost there," he says, turning onto what appears to be an even narrower path. "My place is just around this bend."

When the cabin comes into view through the curtain of snow, I can't hold back a small gasp. This is not the rustic shack I was expecting. It's substantial and beautifully crafted, with large windows and a wraparound porch. Warm light glows from within, somehow defying the growing storm.

"You left the lights on," I say stupidly.

"Smart home system," he replies with a hint of amusement. "I turned them on remotely when Helen called."

Of course he has a smart home system. Why did I assume this man who works with expensive lodge equipment would live in some primitive hovel like an arctic cave man.

Jace pulls the truck under a covered carport and cuts the engine. "Let's get inside before this gets worse."

I follow him through the deepening snow to the front door, clutching my planner binder to my chest like armor. The moment he opens the door, warmth envelops us—not just temperature, but the unmistakable comfort of a well-loved home. The scent of wood and something spicy fills the air.

"You can put your things anywhere," he says, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on a handcrafted wooden rack by the door. "Make yourself comfortable."

I stand awkwardly in the entryway, taking in my surroundings. The main room opens to a soaring ceiling with exposed beams. A stone fireplace that mirrors the one at the lodge dominates one wall, currently dark but clearly the heart of the space. Every piece of furniture appears to be handmade, with clean lines and beautiful woodwork. There are no rugs from big box stores or mass-produced art on these walls.

"Did you make all this?" I ask, running my hand along the back of a solid oak dining chair.

"Most of it," he answers, moving efficiently around the space. He crouches to build a fire, and I find myself watching the movement of his shoulders under his flannel shirt. "Guest room's through there. Bathroom attached. Should have everything you need."

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