Page 11 of The Mountain Man's Secret Star
This is the song that pulled him back from the edge.
The lyrics took on new meaning as I sang them. It wasn’t just my story anymore, but his too. The breakdown that led him away from high-class dining’s brutal kitchen culture. The late night on his apartment floor, listening to my voice remind him that dreams didn't have to cost your soul. I found myself singing directly to him, pouring all the connection I felt into the melody.
When I reached the bridge, our eyes met across the crowd, and I sang the words like a promise meant only for him. Around us, the audience swayed and hummed along, but it felt like we were having an intimate conversation in a language only we understood.
The song ended to enthusiastic applause, but I barely heard it. All my attention was focused on the man who'd found salvation in my lyrics before he'd ever known my face, and the way he was looking at me now like I was something miraculous and fragile and completely necessary.
I finished my set in a haze of anticipation, my body humming with awareness every time I caught sight of him in the crowd. When the last song ended and I thanked Silver Ridge for being an incredible audience, my voice carried more genuine warmth than it had in months.
As I packed up my guitar, festival-goers approached for the usual post-show routine. Tonight, instead of feeling drained by their attention, I found myself energized by their stories. Real connection. Real impact. The reasons I'd started making music in the first place.
But through it all, I could feel Gavin waiting, patient and steady as a mountain, and my skin felt electric with the promise of whatever came next.
When the crowd finally dispersed, I found him by the side of the stage, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, breath forming clouds in the cold air. Christmas lights strung around the festival grounds cast a warm glow over his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the intensity in his pewter eyes.
"So," I said, slinging my guitar case over my shoulder, trying to sound casual despite the way my heart was racing, "what did you think?"
"I think," he said, "you know exactly what I thought."
He looked at me like he wanted to devour me right there in the Christmas lights. I stepped closer, close enough to catch his scent of pine and kitchen spices.
"I think hearing you sing that song was like watching someone reach into my chest and touch my soul."
The raw honesty in his voice made my knees weak. "Gavin..."
"I think," he continued, stepping closer until I could feel the heat radiating from his body, "that I've been waiting my whole life to hear someone sing directly to me like that."
Above us, Comet Kringle blazed brighter than I'd seen it yet, its warm glow competing with the Christmas lights and casting everything in magical light. The festival sounds faded to background noise as we stared at each other.
"Want to look at the comet again?" he asked quietly, his thumb brushing across my lower lip in a touch that made me shiver with want.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
"My cabin's just up the mountain. Better view of the comet from there." His eyes held mine, and I could see the desire burning there, the same need that was pooling hot and insistent between my thighs. "If you're interested."
The invitation hung between us, loaded with implications that had nothing to do with stargazing. I could see the want in his eyes, could feel it echoing in my own body. I nodded.
His cabin appeared through the snow-laden pines like something from a Christmas fairy tale, with log walls glowing golden from the porch lights, smoke drifting from the chimney. Above it all, the comet blazed its ancient path across the star-scattered sky.
"It's perfect," I said as he led me up the front steps, my guitar case abandoned by the door.
Inside was exactly what I'd expected. Lots of natural wood and copper pans, herbs growing in mason jars on the windowsill. A fire crackled in the stone fireplace, casting dancing shadows on the walls. But what stopped me cold was the sight of my albums lined up on a simple wooden shelf, all of them, well-loved and obviously played often.
"You weren't kidding about being a fan," I said, running my finger along the spines.
"That one saved my life," he said quietly, nodding towardSmall Town Dreams. "Seemed wrong not to take care of it."
I turned to face him, and the intensity in his expression made my knees weak. He was standing by the fireplace, flames casting golden light across his face, and he looked like something out of a dream, both rugged and beautiful and completely focused on me.
"You want to know something?" I said, my voice coming out breathier than intended as I stepped closer to him.
He nodded, his eyes tracking my movement.
"That night you played my album on repeat, after your breakdown—I was in my Nashville apartment, writing. Writing about finding someone who understood what it meant to choose authenticity over applause." The words came out in a rush, three years of unknowing connection crystallizing into this moment. "I was writing about you, Gavin. Before I met you, I was already writing about you."
For a moment, we just stared at each other across the small space of his living room. The only sounds were the crackling fire and our slightly uneven breathing. Then he moved, crossing the room in three quick strides, and suddenly his hands were cupping my face and his mouth was on mine.
This kiss was nothing like the tentative exploration we'd shared on the mountain. This was desperate and hungry and full of three years of unknowing anticipation. I melted into him, my hands fisting in his flannel shirt, pulling him closer as his tongue swept into my mouth.
