Page 3 of My Obsessive Mountain Man

"I'm not leaving you alone in a storm, Violet," he says simply, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. As if he's been waiting all this time just to keep me safe.

And standing there in the doorway, watching him move through the shadows of my grandmother's cabin—my cabin—with the comfortable familiarity of belonging, I feel something shift inside me. This wasn't supposed to be anything more than a transaction, a quick stop on my way back to real life.

But as the storm closes in around us, I can't shake the feeling that I've stepped into something I don't understand.

Chapter 2 – Paul

Three years I've waited. Three years I've kept this place ready.

She stands near the fireplace now, the flames I lit earlier casting a golden glow across her features. Her fingers are wrapped around the mug of tea I made her before the electricity failed. Outside, the storm has only intensified, rain lashing against the windows in sheets.

"The generator should have kicked in automatically," I explain, moving to the kitchen. "The storm must have affected the switch. I'll check it in the morning, but we're fine with the fire tonight."

She turns, and I catch the slight wariness in her expression.

"I should have called the hotel to cancel," she says with a frown.

"No signal during storms like this," I explain. "Landline works, though." I nod toward the old rotary phone mounted on the kitchen wall. "Your grandmother refused to get rid of it. Said it was more reliable than those 'newfangled cell phones.'"

A smile touches Violet's lips—the first real one I've seen—and it transforms her face, softening the professional mask she wears. "That sounds exactly like her."

I light a couple of oil lamps I keep ready for outages, their warm glow complementing the firelight. "Hope you're hungry. I caught fresh trout this morning."

"You fish?" She moves closer, the lamplight catching in her auburn hair.

"Hunt, fish, forage." I shrug, reaching for a cast iron pan. "Mountain living."

"And what exactly do you do up here on this mountain, Mr. Mullins?" Her voice carries a hint of challenge.

"Paul," I correct her. "And I do a bit of everything. Custom woodworking mostly. Some guide work for hikers and hunters when the season's right. Been in these mountains fifteen years now."

"After the military?" she asks.

I glance up, meeting her gaze. "Two tours in Afghanistan. One in Iraq." I don't elaborate. Most people don't really want the details, just the outline. "How'd you know?"

"The way you move," she says simply. "My father was Marine Corps. You never quite lose the bearing."

Something warms in my chest at this evidence that she's been watching me too.

"Your grandmother mentioned your dad was military," I say, setting the pan on the rack I've positioned over the fire. "She was proud of him. Proud of you too."

Violet looks away, and I catch the flash of grief before she masks it. "We weren't as close as we should have been, these last few years." Her voice drops. "I kept meaning to visit, but work always seemed more pressing."

"She understood." I move with deliberate care, not wanting to spook her with sudden movements. "Said you were building something important. That your eye for beauty was a gift."

"My eye for monetary value, you mean," she says with a self-deprecating laugh. "I appraise art for auction houses and private collectors. It's hardly a creative pursuit."

"You see what others miss," I counter, seasoning the fish with herbs I'd picked that morning. "That's its own kind of gift."

Lightning flashes, followed immediately by a crack of thunder that shakes the cabin. Violet flinches, wrapping her arms around herself. I notice the slight tremble in her shoulders. Without the heating system, the cabin holds the mountain chill even in the summer.

"Here." I shrug out of my flannel overshirt, leaving me in my henley, and move behind her to drape it over her shoulders. My fingers brush against the soft skin of her neck, and I feel her small shiver.

"Thank you," she murmurs, pulling it closer around herself.

I move to the hearth with deliberate purpose, balancing the cast iron skillet in one hand. I position the heavy skillet at the edge of the flames where the heat is most controlled, then lay the ruby-fleshed trout into the pan. It sizzles immediately, the skin crisping as the rich scent of fresh fish and herbs fills the cabin.

"Cooking this way takes patience," I explain, kneeling to add the foraged chanterelles and fingerling potatoes I'd set aside earlier. "My grandmother taught me. Said food tastes different when it's kissed by real fire."

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