Page 6 of Grumped By the Mountain Man

The thought haunts me all the way up the mountain as my taxi driver, Willis, fights for our lives as he constantly shifts the groaning gearbox and balances the clutch.

By the time we pull up to Jaxon’s beautiful cabin or rather his mansion, my beachy waves are more like tumbleweeds.

“Are you calling the company for a ride back down?” Willis asks as I brace my hands on my knees and struggle not to throw up my two lattes.

“Maybe.”

Well, I hope not. What if Jaxon and I have so much fun catching up that darkness creeps upon us and he creeps on top of me?

Okay, I was getting ahead of myself.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t like the way the skyline’s looking.”

I follow his squinting eyes and examine the horizon that looks perfectly calm and still. I squint too, but no matter how much I tilt my head, I can’t see what he does.

“I checked the weather forecast,” I say, fishing a few bills out of my purse and handing them over. “It’s all clear for the rest of the week.”

Willis shoves the money into his pants pocket and chuckles. “You’re a tourist?” He eyes my outfit, but not in a lecherous way, more in a ‘what is this girl thinking’ sort of way.

So my high-heeled boots were a little impractical for the terrain, so what? They made my ass look rounder. It’s not like I’m going hiking. I’m merely walking up the porch steps and into Jaxon’s home and heart.

“No. I was born by the lake.”

“The lake and the mountains aren’t the same. It’s unpredictable up here.”

“You say that like it’s a whole other country.”

“May as well be. Anyways, if you need another cab, call before five. Because no one’s coming up those hairpins after five.”

I check the time on my phone. Eleven thirty a.m. That’s more than enough time.

My heart thunders as I wave goodbye to Willis and saunter up to the front door, Jaxon’s cinnamon rolls and frappe in hand. Half the coffee spilled in Willis’ taxi and the creamy icing is more on the clear window of the bakery box than on the rolls themselves, but it’s the thought that counts. Stacking the coffee on top of the box, I quickly rake a hand through my bird’s nest and knock.

And knock.

And knock...

I press my face against a nearby window but a buffalo plaid curtain or blanket blocks my view. What was it with mountain men and plaid and flannel? Click clacking off the porch, I peer around the side of the property.

“Jax?”

Nothing.

“Jax?”

He knows I’m coming. Maybe the house is so massive he can’t hear me. A doorbell would surely help but knowing Jaxon, it’s too ‘techy’.

I venture into the massive clearing of the backyard, filled with tools, wood, paint, and varnishes. He’s obviously working on another project, though I can’t tell what it is yet.

A bark sounds to my left, and I peer into the surrounding woods. I love the aesthetic of the green foliage but it comes with an unorthodox sense of creepiness.

The dog barks again.

“M-mochi?”

Another bark spurs me on into the forest line as thoughts of Mochi’s adorable face flood my mind’s eye. Except for a Christmas card Cali had undoubtedly taken, I haven’t seen Mochi since I left for photography school. It was the only mail Jaxon ever sent me, and I still have the card framed in my temporary room back at the lodge.

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