Page 7 of Hitchhiker Mountain Man

"The rental listing mentioned extra blankets in the hall closet," she says. "We should probably grab them now while we can still see."

I nod, not trusting my voice. She looks different in the candlelight—softer, less polished. Her hair has dried in natural waves. The oversized sweater she's changed into keeps slipping off one shoulder, revealing the delicate curve where her neck meets her collarbone. I force my eyes away.

"I'll get them," I offer, needing distance between us.

The hallway is darker, only one candle offering meager light. I find the closet and pull out several thick blankets that smell of cedar and fabric softener. They're soft, expensive—like everything else in this place. Like her.

I've encountered her type before. Women who slum it with the working class when they want a thrill, when they want to feel edgy before returning to their comfortable lives. I'm nobody's vacation experiment.

So why can't I stop noticing the sway of her hips? The delicate line of her profile against the firelight? The way her leggings hug curves that have no business occupying my thoughts?

She's twenty-five. Thirteen years younger than me. Practically from another planet in terms of lifestyle. Every logical part of my brain is sounding the alarm.

I carry the blankets back and find her sitting cross-legged on the floor near the fire, pouring something from a bottle into two lowball glasses.

"Found some whiskey," she says with a smile that creates a dimple in her right cheek. "Seemed appropriate for a storm."

"Didn't take you for a whiskey drinker."

She laughs, the sound honest and unguarded. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Slate."

I place the blankets on the couch, careful to keep my distance as I accept the glass she offers. The whiskey is good—of course it is.

"So," she says, taking a small sip and trying not to wince at the burn and failing adorably. "Tell me more about your life on the road."

I settle on the floor across from her, the fire crackling between us. Safe. Safer than the couch where we might end up too close.

"Not much to tell. I drive. I deliver. I drive some more."

"There must be more to it than that," she persists. "Favorite routes? Crazy stories? Best diners in the country? I want to know."

Her eyes reflect the firelight, genuine curiosity shining there. Against my better judgment, I find myself answering.

"Route 50 across Nevada. They call it the Loneliest Road in America. Miles of nothing but open desert and mountains in the distance. No billboards, no strip malls, no noise. Just you and the road."

She leans forward slightly, completely engaged. "That sounds beautiful."

"It is. Most people would call it boring, but there's something about that emptiness..." I trail off, uncomfortable with revealing too much.

"No, I get it," she says softly. "Sometimes emptiness gives you room to breathe. Room to hear yourself think."

Something shifts between us—a moment of unexpected understanding.

"Best diner is closer to home. It's a place called Dot's in Red Deer," I continue, steering toward safer ground. "Woman who runs it has been cooking the same menu for forty years. Makes pie that would make you forget that truck stop slice."

She grins. "Fighting words."

The whiskey and fire are warming me from the inside out, loosening my guard despite my best efforts. The storm rattles the windows, but in here it's warm, almost intimate. Dangerous.

"Your turn," I say, redirecting attention away from myself. "What's it like in your world?"

She considers this, taking another sip. "Controlled. Everything managed for maximum appearance. Even the most casual brunch requires the right outfit, the right conversation topics. It's exhausting."

"Sounds fake."

"It is. Completely." She sighs, and the sound holds genuine weariness. "That's why I'm here. I needed to remember what real feels like."

The simple honesty in her voice catches me off guard. I expected shallow, rehearsed answers about needing a social media detox. Not this raw admission.

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