Page 4 of Hitchhiker Mountain Man

"The cabin's just up ahead," she says, pointing to a side road nearly hidden by trees. "It's supposed to be rustic.'"

I find myself almost smiling at that.Almost.Girl like her probably doesn’t even know the true meaning of “rustic”.

She turns onto a narrow dirt road that's quickly becoming mud in the downpour. The SUV handles it well until we reach a particularly steep section where the tires spin, seeking traction.

"Hang on," she says, biting her lip in concentration as she navigates the increasingly treacherous path.

We make it around one more bend, and the cabin comes into view. It's bigger than I expected—probably three bedrooms at least—with a covered porch and large windows. Rustic luxury, not actual rustic. Should've known.

The SUV slides slightly as she pulls up to the cabin, coming to a stop just under the edge of the porch roof. The rain is coming down in sheets now, the wind howling through the trees.

"Home sweet temporary home," she says, cutting the engine. "Let's make a run for it."

Even with the short dash from car to porch, we're both soaked by the time we reach the door. She fumbles with the key, hands slippery with rain, and I resist the urge to take it from her and do it myself.

Finally, the door swings open, and we stumble into the dim interior. She flips a switch, and warm light fills what appears to be a great room with vaulted ceilings, expensive-looking furniture, and a stone fireplace big enough to stand in.

"Come on in," she says, pushing wet hair from her face. Her sweater clings to her curves, and water drips from her eyelashes.

I look away, irritated by my own awareness of her.

"Phone's over there," she adds, pointing to an old-fashioned landline on a side table. "I'm going to get towels and see if I can get a fire started."

As she disappears down a hallway, I stand dripping on the polished hardwood, feeling out of place in my wet, work-stained clothes. The cabin is all exposed beams and carefully curated wilderness chic—the kind of place that costs more per night than I make in a week—notrusticat all.

I should call Travis at Mitchell's Auto, see if he can send someone with the part I need once the storm passes. Then maybe someone from the local diner can give me a ride back toEleanor. I pass through this area to Darkmore all the time, so I know most of the locals by face if not name.

The sooner I can get out of here—away from this too-perfect cabin and the too-attractive tenant—the better.

But as I move toward the phone, I catch sight of Jordyn returning with armfuls of fluffy white towels, a determined look on her face as she kneels by the fireplace and begins arranging kindling. Something about the scene—her focused expression—makes me pause.

This is going to be more complicated than I thought. And that's the most irritating thing of all.

three

Jordyn

Ididn'texpecttoend up sharing my escape cabin with a grumpy stranger, but as I towel my hair dry, I can't help thinking this storm might be the most exciting thing to happen to me in months.

"Here," I say, offering Slate the largest, fluffiest towel I could find. "You're dripping all over the floor."

He takes it with a grunt that I'm beginning to interpret as his version of "thank you." The towel looks comically small in his large hands. Everything about him is oversized compared to the carefully proportioned furniture of the rental cabin.

"You can sit down, you know," I tell him, gesturing to the sofa. "It's just water."

He looks skeptical but moves toward the couch, leaving a trail of wet footprints. I try not to stare as he runs the towel over his dark hair, but it's difficult. There's something magnetic about his movements—efficient, purposeful, nothing wasted. Completelyunlike the calculated gestures of men in my social circle, who seem to constantly pose for an invisible audience.

"Did you reach anyone on the phone?" I ask, tending to the growing fire.

"Straight to voicemail," he says. "Storm's probably knocked out some lines."

"Well, looks like you're stuck here until it passes. Are you hungry? I brought some groceries."

He hesitates. "I don't want to impose."

"It's pasta and jarred sauce, not a five-course meal," I say, rolling my eyes. "Besides, I'm cooking for myself anyway."

Without waiting for his response, I head to the kitchen. I can feel his eyes on me as I move around, pulling ingredients from shopping bags. For some reason, I want to prove to him that I'm not completely helpless.

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