Page 1 of Hitchhiker Mountain Man

one

Jordyn

Myphonebuzzesforthe fifth time in twenty minutes. Mom, again. I toss it onto the passenger seat without looking. Whatever crisis she's having about my "impulsive life choices" can wait until I'm ready to deal with it—which might be never.

The Range Rover's navigation system keeps trying to reroute me to the main highway, clearly confused by my deliberate choice to take the scenic route. I ignore its persistent chiming, just like I'm ignoring my family. The mountain road curves ahead, revealing patches of aspen trees turning brilliant gold against the evergreens. I crack my window and breathe in air that doesn't smell like designer perfume or my father's imported cigars.

Freedom.Finally.

Three weeks ago, I broke things off with Bradley Wells after two years of dating. He checked every box on my parents' "perfect match" list: heir to Wells Investment Group, Ivy League education, country club membership, and a family pedigree thatmatched our own. The look on my mother's face when I told her—part horror, part fury—was almost worth the social suicide. Almost.

"You'll regret this, Jordyn," she'd said, lips barely moving as she maintained her perfect smile for the benefit of anyone watching. "He was perfect."

Perfect for the daughter they wanted. Perfect for Jordyn Montgomery, future VP of Montgomery Luxury Real Estate, wife of Bradley Wells, mother to 2.5 perfectly dressed children who would attend the right schools and make the right connections.

But I'm twenty-five, and I'm suffocating.

So here I am, driving into the Colorado mountains to a cabin I rented on an app with my own credit card—possibly the first truly independent decision I've made since choosing my college major. Even that had been guided by subtle pressure. "Marketing is so versatile, darling. Perfect for when you join the family business."

My phone buzzes again. This time it's a text from Bradley.

Your parents are worried. Just call them, J. You're being impulsive again.

Translation: Be reasonable, Jordyn. Come back to the path we've all agreed is best for you.

I switch the phone to silent and toss it into my purse.

The GPS informs me I'm thirty minutes from my destination, but my growling stomach and the fuel gauge hovering near a quarter tank suggest a stop might be wise. When I spot the weathered wooden sign for "Rocky Mountain Rest Stop" ahead, I signal (a habit my father drilled into me even when no one's around to see) and turn in.

The parking lot is half-filled with massive semis, their chrome gleaming in the afternoon sun. My vehicle looks almost comically out of place next to these beasts—like a pampered poodle among wolves. I feel a little thrill at the thought.This is exactly what I wanted: something real, unscripted, unprogrammed by my family's expectations.

I check my reflection in the visor mirror—a habit I'm trying to break—and realize I'm still wearing the pearl earrings Mom gave me for my twenty-first birthday. I remove them, dropping them into the console. My honey-blonde hair is falling out of its perfect blow-out after hours of driving with the windows occasionally open. Good. Let it be messy.

The truck stop is nothing like the carefully curated rustic-chic mountain cafés in Whistler where my family vacations. This place has actual rust. The neon "OPEN" sign buzzes and flickers. A bell jingles as I push open the door, and the scent of coffee, grease, and something indefinably authentic hits me. I love it immediately.

Inside, a handful of people occupy the vinyl booths—mostly men in work clothes, a couple of tired-looking families. No one pays me any attention, which is refreshing after a lifetime of being Jordyn Montgomery, daughter of Richard and Eleanor.

I head to the counter, eyes drawn to the display case of pies with hand-written labels. "Homemade," the sign boasts. Not artisanal, not craft, not small-batch. Justhomemade. I'm oddly charmed.

"Coffee, please," I tell the middle-aged waitress whose name tag reads 'Darlene'. "And what pie would you recommend?"

"Apple's fresh this morning," she says, already pouring coffee into a mug that's seen better days. I notice the chipped edge and find myself appreciating its imperfection.

"Perfect."

As I wait for my pie, I become aware of the guy beside me at the counter. Not next to me—there are two empty stools between us—but close enough that he enters my peripheral vision like a storm front.

He's big. That's my first impression. Tall, broad-shouldered, with the solid build of someone who uses his body for actual work, not just carefully programmed personal training sessions. His flannel shirt has the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair and faded tattoos. A worn baseball cap shadows his face, but I can see enough to note the stubbled jaw, the straight nose, the set of his mouth as he scowls into his coffee cup like it's personally offended him.

Something about him makes me straighten my back. He's probably over forty, definitely not the kind of man my mother would approve of me noticing. Which makes me notice him more.

"Beautiful country up here," I say, aiming for casual conversation but hearing the too-polished edge in my voice—the one I use at charity galas and business mixers.

He doesn't look up, just grunts something that might be agreement. Or indigestion.

Darlene slides a generous slice of pie in front of me, the scent of cinnamon and apples rising with the steam. "Enjoy, honey."

"Thank you." I take a bite and can't help the small sound of appreciation that escapes. It's actually homemade, not pretending to be.

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