Page 2 of Trouble with the Mountain Man
"We'll figure it out." He stands. "This afternoon work?"
I nod, not trusting my voice. There's something about this man that scrambles my thoughts.
"Two o'clock," he says, then turns and walks out without another word.
Jake grins at my stunned expression. "Don't mind him. Torin's the same way—all business until you get to know them. Then they'd move mountains for you."
I watch through the window as Flint drives away, my heart still racing from that brief encounter. "He seems... intense."
"Honey, you have no idea," Juniper says with a knowing smile.
two
Flint
TheWebstercottagesitson Maple Street like a fairy tale gone wrong. What should be charming rusticity is actually structural failure waiting to happen. I can see the problems from fifty feet away. The foundation stones are shifted out of alignment, mortar joints are failing, the whole southeast corner is dropping at least three inches.
It's worse than I expected. And I always expect the worst.
I'm examining the foundation's north side when she appears around the corner, moving with quick, nervous energy. Maple Webster. Even her name fits—sweet, natural, rooted in this mountain soil.
She's beautiful in an understated way that hits me harder than flashy ever could. Shoulder-length brown hair with auburn highlights that catch the afternoon sun. Hazel eyes that seem to see everything. Average height but perfectly proportioned, wearing jeans and a sweater that emphasize her curves without trying.
But it's the worry lines around her eyes that get to me. This woman is carrying weight she shouldn't have to bear alone.
"Hi," she says, stopping a few feet away. "Thank you for coming."
I nod, turning back to the foundation to get my thoughts in order. This is business. I don't get involved in clients' personal lives. I assess, I quote, I build. That's it.
Except Maple Webster makes me want to throw my rules out the window.
"How bad is it?" she asks, coming closer.
"Bad." I point to the southeast corner. "The whole section needs to be rebuilt. Some of the original stones can be salvaged, but you're looking at significant work."
Her face falls. "Expensive work."
"Depends on what you consider expensive." I crouch down, running my hands along the failing stonework. Good river rock, probably cut from the ridge behind town in the 1940s. Solid materials, poor execution. "Foundation work isn't cheap, but it's not optional either. This corner drops much more, you'll have structural damage to the house itself."
"I was afraid of that." She wraps her arms around herself. "How long would it take?"
"Three weeks, maybe four. It depends on the weather." I stand, noting how she has to tilt her head back to meet my eyes. "I'd need to excavate around the perimeter, shore up the good sections, and rebuild the damaged areas from the ground up."
"And the cost?"
I name a figure that's fair for the work involved. Her face goes pale.
"I need to think about it."
Something twists in my chest at her obvious distress. This isn't just about money—it's about security, stability. Everything a single mother needs and can't afford to lose.
"There might be another option," I hear myself saying.
"What kind of option?"
I shouldn't be doing this. I work alone, always have. Getting personally involved with clients leads to complications I don't need.
But looking at Maple Webster, seeing the worry she's trying to hide, I can't seem to help myself.
