Page 8 of Mountain Man's Naughty List
That earns a grin. “So, youdothink I’m charming.”
“I saidwithout.Don’t push it.”
The conversation loosens something in me. I head for the bathroom to splash water on my face, catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and groan. The beard’s gone wild—half a hockey playoff relic, half mountain hermit.
Time for damage control.
I find an old trimmer in the guest drawer and do my best. The result… is not good. I manage to keep the mustache but accidentally carve out uneven patches on both sides. The mirror stares back at a man who looks like he lost a bet.
Perfect.
When I step back into the main room, Liz looks up from her laptop and nearly snorts coffee through her nose.
“Oh my God,” she says, covering her mouth. “Is that intentional?”
I touch my upper lip. “You don’t like the mutton-stache?”
“I don’t thinkanyonelikes the mutton-stache.”
“Maybe it’ll grow on you.”
She shakes her head, laughter bright and musical. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously handsome, sure.”
“Ridiculously something.”
Her laughter rolls through the cabin, warm as the firelight, and for a second the place feels less like exile and more like a home.
The wind howls outside, rattling the windows. She glances toward her phone as it buzzes. “That’s Stevie.”
She listens for a minute, expression shifting. “Flights in and out of Anchorage are grounded. Blizzard moving through the lower range. They’ll try to get here again in a few days.”
“So we’re on our own,” I say.
“Looks that way.” She exhales. “You okay with that?”
“Depends. You planning to poison me with kale again?”
Her lips twitch. “Only if you deserve it.”
“Then we’re good.”
We end up in the kitchen together anyway, improvising dinner from whatever she stocked: pasta, jarred sauce, garlic bread. She moves like someone used to efficiency—quick, deliberate, competent—and I can’t stop watching.
“So, advertising?” I ask, breaking the quiet.
She hums in confirmation. “For ten years. I wrote taglines, website copy, campaign blurbs—basically, words to make people buy things they didn’t need.”
“Sounds glamorous.”
“It wasn’t. Seventy-hour weeks, endless meetings, no life.” She shrugs. “I quit last month. Going freelance.”
“That’s brave.”
“It’s terrifying.” She smiles, small but genuine. “But I figured if I’m going to work myself to exhaustion, I might as well do it for myself.”
I nod, impressed despite myself. “You’ll kill it. You’ve got the presence for it.”
