Page 45 of Stuck with my Mountain Daddies

I glanced up at Beckett, expecting judgment, maybe even boredom. But he was still there, still watching, still listening, his expression revealing only quiet patience.

“And the truth is…” I drew in a breath, my fingers twisting in the hem of my sweatshirt, “I’m lonely. I’vebeenlonely for a long time.”

The admission felt like stepping off a ledge. Terrifying and inevitable.

“There’s no camera right now. No followers, no curated version of me. Justme. And I don’t know if I even like who that is anymore. Is that not weird? That I’m only realizingnowthat I don’t know who I am.”

We remained like that, listening to the only sound. The storm, steady and soft against the roof.

Beckett’s jaw tightened, his eyes flicking down like he was considering his next move carefully. Then he crossed the room and lowered himself into the chair across from me.

“No one really has it figured out, Riley,” he said quietly. “Not out here. Not in LA. Not anywhere.”

My breath caught, not because his words were some grand revelation, but because they were the first thing all day that didn’t feel like a blow.

The sharp lines around Beckett’s mouth softened, the wall in his eyes lowered enough for me to glimpse a depth to him that I hadn’t seen before.

He shifted forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. “I didn’t mean to come at you the way I did,” he murmured. “I don’t get that world. But that doesn’t mean I don’t see you.”

My chest squeezed. I looked at him,reallylooked, and this time, I saw more than the scowling lumberjack who thought I was shallow and silly.

I saw the man beneath the gruffness. The man who’d chosen a life of quiet over noise, who knew how to be still in a way I’d never mastered.

“You’re not what I expected,” I admitted, a soft laugh escaping.

His mouth curved slightly at the corners. “Neither are you.”

We ended up talking all night.

The hours slipped by unnoticed, the storm outside fading to a whisper as we traded stories.

He told me about growing up in Medford, about why he loves his life in the mountains with his brothers, and his sister living nearby, which was why they all stayed when their parents ventured off to New York.

I told him about LA, about the hunger to be seen, about the cost of it all.

Somewhere along the way, our knees brushed.

Somewhere along the way, his hand found mine.

It wasn’t a grand gesture. No sweeping declaration, no cinematic moment. Only a quiet, solid warmth, his rough fingers wrapping gently around mine.

And surprisingly, I felt steady.

Not fixed. Not whole. Butsteady.

How the hell had things with Beckett turned around so fast? My head was spinning.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Beckett

The storm had pretty much brokentwo days ago, but inside the cabin, the air was heavier than ever.

It wasn’t the weather. It washer.

Riley Brooks.

The influencer with the sharp tongue, the glossy hair, the eyes that burned hotter than she probably realized.

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