Page 1 of How to Love a Mountain Man

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SHAE

“Well, Shae? What do you think?”

I take a step back from the maple tree, tilting my head to study how the branches frame the mountain view. My realtor’s question hangs in the air between us, but I need another minute. Another breath. The property sprawls before me, untamed and quiet, everything I’ve spent eighteen months searching for.

No neighbors in sight. No road noise. Just trees and silence and possibility.

“I think I really like it.” I turn to face Wendy. “But I want to explore the property a little more.”

Wendy’s face lights up, but then she hesitates. “Before you do, there’s something you should know. It’s fifteen acres.”

My eyes widen. I’ve been looking at five-acre lots for the past year and a half.

“I know it’s more than you were planning for,” she continues quickly. “But the price per acre is actually pretty reasonable.”

She names the property’s listing price. My heart sinks, but I do the mental math. If I dip into my house-building fund and cut back on non-essentials, I could maybe swing it. I’d have to live in a smaller cabin for much longer than I’d originally planned for, but for this property…

“Go ahead and look around. Really imagine if it could work for you.” Wendy waves her phone. “Take your time. I’ve got some emails to catch up on.”

I part ways with my realtor, following what looks like an old walking path as I move deeper into the property. A small creek burbles somewhere to my left, the sound barely audible over the rustle of leaves. I make a mental note to explore it later, but for now I keep following the path, which eventually opens up onto a perfect building site nestled between the trees. Building a home here would be easier than on many of the other plots I’ve seen. The extra acreage would mean more work maintaining the land, but also more guaranteed privacy.

The path curves around a particularly massive maple, and I pause. From this vantage point, I can see how the property sits perfectly positioned on the mountainside. High enough for privacy, low enough to avoid the worst of winter’s fury. Close enough to Fairhope that I won’t have to quit my job at the library, but far enough that I won’t hear the summer tourists who flood the coastal town every year.

A breeze rustles through the canopy above, and I close my eyes and listen. Really listen.

No traffic humming in the distance. No neighbors’ TVs through shared walls. No early morning deliveries rattling up the street. Just wind in the leaves, birds calling to each other, and the soft thud of my own heartbeat.

I’ve lost track of how many properties I’ve seen since I first started looking. Some were too close to the highway. Others needed more terrain work than my savings could handle. The rest had neighboring houses peeking through the trees. Each viewing ended the same way: with me walking away, unwilling to settle for almost-right when I knew exactly what I wanted.

But this? This is perfect.

Well, perfect except for the cost.

Time to head back to Wendy and talk through the reality of that price tag. I take one last look at the mountainside, trying to commit every detail to memory. Just in case.

I’m halfway back to the entrance where Wendy is waiting for me when I hear car doors slam, followed by male laughter. A deep voice carries through the trees, and something in its warm timbre makes me pause mid-step. I round the final bend in the path and stop short.

Two men stand by a parked SUV, and it’s immediately obvious that the pair is a realtor and his client—the client being a tall man dressed in a dark green tee that pulls snug across his chest. The man’s caramel-brown hair looks freshly tousled, and he’s gesturing at the maple trees, the movement of his arm drawing my eyes to his muscled arms.

When he turns and spots me, his smile scatters every coherent thought in my head.

“Gorgeous property, isn’t it?” he asks warmly, as if the two of us know each other.

I open my mouth, but no words come out. I’m the kind of person who rehearses basic social interactions before making phone calls, who chose a career surrounded by quiet books instead of chatty people. In a scenario like this, all my brain can do is short-circuit.

“Shae?” Wendy’s voice cuts through my panic. “We should get going if you want me to get started on an offer.”

I’ve never been more grateful for an interruption in my life. I manage a quick nod in the stranger’s direction before practically fleeing to Wendy’s car. As we pull away, my eyes slide over to the side mirror—not to look at the man who just rendered me speechless, but at my dream property, finally found.

But there’s no avoiding the sight of the attractive stranger as he stands among the maple trees.

Wendy submits an offer on my behalf that afternoon. We both know it’s on the low end, but Wendy agrees that it’s worth a shot. Maybe the seller will be willing to negotiate.

They’re not. The counter-offer they send back barely budges from the list price, along with a note that another party has expressed serious interest.

“Do you think they’re bluffing?” I ask Wendy over the phone, pacing my tiny apartment kitchen in nervous circles.

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