Page 17 of Stranded with the Mountain Man

"Congratulations," he says, genuine warmth in his voice. "You deserve it."

I look around the workshop, at the projects in various stages of completion, at the man who created them. "I wouldn't have come up with any of it without this place. Without you."

Something shifts in his expression, a sudden guardedness. "You'd have figured something out. You're good at what you do."

"That's not what I mean." I set the phone down, needing him to understand. "Being here, seeing how you work, how you live—it's changed something in me, Jace."

He turns away slightly, focusing intently on arranging tools. "Storm fever. Happens when people get isolated together."

The dismissal stings more than it should. "Is that all this has been to you?"

"You know it's not." His voice is low, tight. "But let's be realistic, Elisa. Tomorrow you go back to Toronto, to your business, your clients, your life. And I stay here."

"It doesn't have to be that black and white."

He faces me fully now, his expression serious. "Doesn't it? You planning to give up your career and move to the mountains? Because I'm not moving to the city."

"I'm not asking you to," I say, frustration building. "But there are options between all or nothing."

"Like what? Weekend visits until we both get tired of the distance? Me sitting in your sleek Toronto apartment feeling like a fish out of water? You here, going stir-crazy when you can't get a decent latte or cellular reception?"

"You're not even willing to try?" The hurt in my voice is unmistakable.

His jaw tightens. "I've tried that road before. It doesn't work."

"I'm not Caroline," I snap, then immediately regret bringing up his ex.

Silence falls between us, heavy and charged. Finally, he speaks, his voice deliberately calm.

"No, you're not. You're someone with a life completely incompatible with mine. We had a good time, Elisa. Let's not complicate it with impossible expectations."

The words land like blows. I straighten my shoulders, professionalism my only defense. "You're right. I should pack."

The rest of the day passes in painful politeness. We speak only when necessary, orbiting each other like cautious planets. That night, I sleep in the guest room for the first time in days, staring at the ceiling, listening to him moving around in the workshop below.

By morning, the roads are clear as predicted. We load my suitcase into his truck in silence, the beauty of the sun-drenched snow a cruel contrast to the heaviness in my chest.

The drive to the airport is excruciating. Two hours of stunning mountain scenery and deafening silence. I rehearse speeches in my head—passionate arguments, dignified farewells—but say nothing.

Twenty minutes from the airport, Jace finally speaks.

"I found something of yours." He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the wooden coaster I'd made, complete with its "mistake" that revealed the deeper grain. "Thought you might want it."

I take it, running my fingers over the smooth surface, the beautiful imperfection. "You finished it."

"Added some oil to bring out the grain." His eyes remain on the road. "Thought it might remind you that not everything has to be perfect to be valuable."

Something breaks loose in my chest. "I don't want to leave."

The words hang in the air between us. I see his hands tighten on the steering wheel.

"You have to," he says quietly. "Your life is there."

"What if I want a different life?" I turn in my seat to face him properly. "What if meeting you has made me question everything I thought I wanted?"

He pulls the truck to the shoulder of the road with a sharp turn, puts it in park, and finally looks at me. "Don't say things you don't mean, Elisa."

"I mean it." My voice is steady despite the pounding of my heart. "I'm not saying I want to abandon everything and move to your cabin tomorrow. But this week has shown me possibilities I never considered."

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