Page 3 of How to Love a Mountain Man

For a split second, even while Wendy’s laughter fills the room, I actually think he’s being serious. And foranothersplit second, I find myself picturing the heroic moment: muscles flexing as he steadies himself in one of the trees on Main Street, gently coaxing a scared cat into his strong, safe arms.

Jesus. What is wrong with me?

Julian slides into the chair next to me, and I catch another wave of his cologne. I’ve never found men’s cologne particularly noticeable, but whatever kind he’s wearing is having an almost spellbinding effect on me. Good God, he’s attractive. Sitting this close to him, I’m suddenly consumed by the strong line of his jaw, the teasing curve of his lips, the deep warm blue of his eyes.

It nearly paralyzes me, knowing this is the man I’ll be living next to for years to come.

“Here’s the final survey showing the property line,” Wendy says, spreading a document between us. “The walking path makes anatural boundary, but we’ve marked it clearly with permanent stakes.”

Julian leans forward to study the paper, and I try not to stare at the way his neck curves down to his strong shoulders, or how his t-shirt pulls across his back.

“You know, Shae,” he says, glancing at me over his shoulder, “we could save a lot of money if we just built one house and shared it.”

I know he’s just teasing, but my whole body flushes hot. I manage something between a laugh and a cough, which only makes my face burn hotter.

For the next hour, Wendy slides paper after paper in front of us for signatures. I keep my eyes fixed on the dotted lines, refusing to glance left where Julian sits, still radiating warmth and that maddening cologne.

Seven and a half acres, I remind myself. Plenty of space to pretend I don’t have a neighbor at all.

2

JULIAN

FOUR MONTHS LATER

The cool mountain air bites at my face as I climb out of my SUV, but I barely notice. My attention is fixed on my nearly-finished house, right where I’ve been picturing it for the past four months. The crew is hard at work despite the early hour, and the sound of their progress echoes across the property.

“Looking good, right?” Mike, my site foreman, approaches with a tablet in hand. “We’re actually running ahead of schedule. If the weather holds, we might have you in here before the first snow.”

I grin at him. “You’re a miracle worker, Mike.” The progress they’ve made blows my mind. The exterior is done, a lot of the interior too, and those massive windows I specially ordered frame the mountain views exactly like I dreamed they would.

“The miracle is you actually knowing what you want.” Mike swipes through some photos on his tablet. “Most clients change their minds six times about every detail. You handed us plans and stuck to them.”

“It was easy for me to know exactly what I wanted.” I follow him around the site as he points out their progress. The great room has a vaulted ceiling with exposed beams. The kitchen opens onto a deck perfect for entertaining. And upstairs, my bedroom has a private balcony facing the sunrise.

The crew’s music plays from a speaker near their trucks, upbeat country music that keeps the energy high. A couple of the workers give me friendly nods as they walk by with paint cans in hand, and I return the gesture, grateful for all the hard work they’ve put in.

I leave Mike to his work and walk the perimeter of what will be my front yard, mentally noting where I want to plant fruit trees come spring. Apples, pears, maybe a couple cherry trees…too much fruit for just me, but someday I’ll have a family to share it with.

Sooner rather than later, I hope.

A movement catches my eye, and I turn toward the property line. The location of my house has been a point of contention since I staked out the spot. On paper, I’d planned to build much deeper into my property, but something made me shift it closer to the boundary. I told myself—and Shae, when she confronted me about it—that this spot had better drainage, easier access, superior views. All true, but not the whole truth. The spot also just felt right in a way I can’t explain.

Shae wasn’t exactly subtle about her displeasure. She said it defeated the whole purpose of splitting the property, having me build so close. But it’s my half of the land, my choice, and our houses are still far enough apart that we each have plenty of privacy. The trees between us ensure that.

Through those trees, I catch glimpses of her, exactly where she’s been every morning for the past week, working on her cabin. I keep my distance, but I can’t help watching. She’s tackling the project entirely alone, and I’ve got to admire her determination. Her cabin is small—tiny, really. But watching her work on it day after day, I can tell it means everything to her.

Today she’s installing support beams, moving slowly, her face deeply serious with concentration. A strand of hair escapes her ponytail, and she brushes it away with the back of her hand, leaving a smudge on her cheek.

My fingers yearn to wipe it away. Which is ridiculous. We’ve barely spoken since signing the paperwork, and every interaction we’ve had has been tense. She clearly wants nothing to do with me or my friendly neighborliness. And yet I can’t help wanting to get to know her better—and I can’t help myself from wanting to know if those opinionated lips of hers kiss as fiercely as they talk.

I really should stop watching her. I have a meeting in town in an hour, and before I head back, I need to review more material samples with Mike.

Instead, I find myself walking toward Shae’s property.

The difference between our building sites strikes me again as I step across the boundary line. Where my lot buzzes with activity and progress, hers is almost eerily quiet. It’s just Shae, her tools, and a structure that looks more like a fancy shed than a house. I don’t understand it. She has seven and a half acres of pristine mountain property, and she’s building something that could fit in a suburban backyard?

“Need something?” Her voice startles me. She’s noticed my approach, but hasn’t stopped working.

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