Page 7 of Wrong Number, Right Mountain Man
Chapter 4
Beck
Twoweeksofdailytexting. Sunny works herself into my routine so seamlessly that checking my phone becomes as automatic as feeding Rex or banking the fire.
This morning's message arrives at 6:47 AM with a photo of a lopsided muffin.
Sunny: Attempted blueberry muffins. They look like sad little alien heads but taste amazing. Success or failure?
The muffin looks unfortunate, lumpy and blackened on one side, but something about her pride in the disaster makes me smile before I’m fully awake.
Me: Edible disasters are still victories in my book.
Sunny: This is why we're friends. You appreciate my very low standards for success.
Friends. Right. That’s what this is.
Rex watches me grin at my phone like I’ve lost my mind, which maybe I have. The old Beck would’ve deleted her number after the first night. The old Beck didn’t have time for complications or distractions from his ordered existence.
The new Beck photographs his morning coffee to send to a woman he has never met because she mentioned liking the steam patterns. Who pays attention to steam patterns? But I’m surprising myself for wanting to do things to make her happy.
Me: Coffee's ready. Steam looks like a tree today.
Sunny: Ooh, send a pic! I love your mountain morning updates. Makes me feel less jealous of your peaceful life.
I angle the mug just right to catch the light streaming through the kitchen window. Since when have I cared about lighting? Or take multiple shots of the same cup of coffee to get the best one?
Since Sunny started saying things like, "Your cabin sounds like a dream," and, "I bet the sunrises are incredible up there."
The photo uploads, and her response comes back almost immediately.
Sunny: Gorgeous! Also, your hands are in the shot, and now I'm distracted by your fingers. This isn’t helping my concentration at work.
Heat spreads through my chest. She has been getting bolder with comments like that, little remarks blurring the line between friendly and something else entirely. Something that makes my pulse kick up and my brain go to places it shouldn’t.
"We’re in trouble, boy," I mutter to Rex, but I’m already typing back.
Me: Distracted how?
Three dots appear and disappear several times before she responds.
Sunny: Let's just say I'm having very unprofessional thoughts about what those hands might feel like and leave it at that.
My coffee cup hits the counter harder than intended. Rex's ears perk up at the sound.
The flirting has been escalating for days now. Started innocent enough, comments about my voice when she called to hear what a "mountain man" sounded like. Progressed to compliments about the photos I sent, then observations about my hands, my arms when I sent a picture of fence repairs.
She has a way of making everything sound like an invitation without crossing any lines. Yet.
The phone stays quiet for a while, probably because she has to work, unlike me with my flexible schedule and no boss breathing down my neck. I use the time to check the fence line, boots crunching through frost-covered pine needles. The bear hasn’t made another appearance, but I replace two loose boards anyway.
My thoughts drift to her messages, wondering what she’s doing, if she’s thinking about me.
When did I become this person?
When the mail-order brides started flooding the mountain, I stayed far away from any of that nonsense. Lone mountain man all the way for me. Now who knows?
"Got neighbors who married mail-order brides they never met," I tell Rex as we walk the property line, our breath visible in the crisp air. "Thought they were crazy. Now I’m falling for a wrong number. Maybe I’m the crazy one."
