Page 10 of Stranded with the Mountain Man

"Everything okay?" he asks, eyeing my white-knuckled grip on the phone.

"Just clients who don't understand the concept of 'stranded in a blizzard.'" I set the phone down. "How's the generator?"

"Stable for now."

The silence that follows is loaded with awareness. Neither of us mentions what happened last night, but it hangs in the air between us.

"I need a distraction," I blurt out. "Something to do that isn't staring at this phone."

He studies me for a moment. "I was going to work in my shop for a while."

"Your workshop? Could I... see it?" The request surprises even me.

I follow him down a narrow staircase. When he pushes open a heavy wooden door, the scent hits me first—sawdust and varnish, earthy and clean.

The workshop takes my breath away. Tools hang in precise arrangements on the walls. Worktables occupy the center, each with projects in different stages of completion.

"This is incredible," I say, turning in a slow circle. "You built all this too?"

"The space, yeah. And most of the workbenches. This is where I make furniture and design equipment for the SAR team."

I run my fingers over a half-finished cabinet door. "It's beautiful. The craftsmanship is amazing."

"Thanks," he says, almost embarrassed. "It's just wood."

"It's art," I correct him. "The kind of detail my clients would pay thousands for."

"Want to try?" He gestures to a small piece of maple. "Could show you some basics."

"I'd probably just ruin it."

"It's just wood. More where that came from."

For the next hour, Jace guides me through sanding and shaping a simple coaster. His large hands occasionally cover mine to demonstrate, sending electricity through my body.

"Gentle pressure," he murmurs, standing close behind me. "Feel the grain."

The repetitive motion of sanding is strangely meditative. For once, my mind isn't racing through checklists and contingency plans.

"In my job, everything is about perfect execution," I admit. "I'm always planning for every possibility."

"Sounds exhausting," he says simply.

"It is. But necessary. One mistake can ruin an entire wedding."

He watches me work. "Wood's more forgiving than you might think. Mistakes become character. Sometimes the piece ends up better for it."

"Not in my world."

"You're not in your world right now," he says softly. "You're in mine."

I look up, our eyes locking. The intensity in his gaze makes my heart stutter.

"Show me how to use that," I say, nodding toward a hand plane.

As he demonstrates, I'm mesmerized by the wood curls peeling away. When I try, the plane catches, leaving an ugly gash across my piece.

"I told you I'd ruin it," I say, disappointed. "I can't even get this right."

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