Page 3 of Getaway with the Mountain Man
He's there again.
This time he's fully clothed, darn. In worn jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, but the impact is just as devastating. He's stacking split logs into neat cords near what must be his cabin, movements economical and graceful. Sunlight filters through the trees, casting him in golden light that makes my camera-trained eye itch to capture the scene.
But more than his physical appeal, it's the way he belongs here that stops me. Every movement speaks of deep familiarity with this place, of someone completely comfortable in his own skin and environment. It's a kind of confidence I recognize from boardrooms but have never seen translated to the wilderness.
I should announce myself. Should apologize for yesterday's awkward encounter and ask for directions back to town. Instead, I find myself frozen again, watching the play of muscles beneath his shirt, the way he pauses occasionally to wipe his hands on a rag tucked into his back pocket.
This time, he senses my presence before I can flee.
"Lost?" he asks, not even turning around.
Heat floods my cheeks. "I... yes. Maybe? The trails aren't very well marked."
He straightens slowly, turning to face me. Up close, his features are even more striking—a strong jaw under a full beard,straight nose, and lines around his eyes that speak of frequent laughter and long hours in the sun.
"Depends on your destination," he says, his voice carrying a hint of amusement that suggests he knows exactly why I'm here.
"The lodge," I manage, trying to project more confidence than I feel. "Silver Ridge Lodge. I'm staying there."
"I figured." His lips quirk in what might be the beginning of a smile. "Lottie Smith, right?"
My mouth falls open. "How do you—"
"Small town," he explains, setting down the log he'd been holding. "Word travels fast, especially about beautiful strangers."
The casual compliment sends warmth spiraling through me. I'm used to smooth corporate flattery, but something in his direct gaze suggests he means exactly what he says.
"You have me at a disadvantage," I say, grateful when my voice comes out steady. "You know my name, but I don't know yours."
"Jakob Lindström." He steps closer, close enough that I catch a hint of pine and sweat. "And you're about two miles from the lodge, heading in the wrong direction."
"Oh." Disappointment crashes through me. Two miles might as well be twenty in my current state. "I guess I'll just retrace my steps."
"Or," he says, something shifting in his expression, "I could show you a shortcut. There's a path through my property that cuts the distance in half."
I hesitate. Every instinct honed by years of city living screams that following strange men into isolated forests is a terrible idea. But everything about Jakob Lindström radiates steady reliability rather than danger. And honestly, the alternative is wandering in circles until my phone dies completely.
"I don't want to impose," I say, though we both know I'm going to accept.
"No imposition. I was heading that direction anyway."
It's probably a lie told for my benefit, but I nod gratefully. "Thank you. I promise I'm not usually this helpless in the outdoors."
"First time in the mountains?" he asks, shouldering a small pack and gesturing for me to follow.
"First time anywhere that doesn't have concrete and reliable cell service," I admit, falling into step beside him on a well-worn path. "I'm more of a five-star hotel person."
"And yet here you are," he observes, glancing sideways at me. "What changed your mind?"
The question catches me off guard. I could give him the simple answer—forced vacation, friend's meddling, need to relax. But something about his direct gaze invites honesty.
"Burnout," I say finally. "My best friend staged an intervention. Apparently eighteen-hour workdays and living on coffee and takeout isn't sustainable long-term."
"Apparently not." There's no judgment in his voice, just understanding. "What kind of marketing?"
"Corporate acquisitions, mostly. When one company wants to buy another, I help craft the narrative that makes it sound like a good idea rather than a hostile takeover." I pause, realizing how cynical that sounds. "It's more interesting than I’m making it out to be."
"I'm sure it is," he says, and surprisingly, he seems to mean it.
