Page 6 of My Obsessive Mountain Man

She just doesn't know it yet.

Chapter 3 – Violet

Sunlight filters through faded lace curtains, casting delicate patterns across the quilt covering me. For a moment, I'm disoriented—the bed unfamiliar, the silence too complete. Then it rushes back: the summer storm, the cabin, Paul.

I breathe in deeply, expecting mustiness from a long-unused room, but find only the faint scent of cedar and clean mountain air mingled with the unmistakable aroma of fresh coffee. My body feels heavy.

A rhythmic thudding sound from outside draws me to the window. I push aside the curtain, and my breath catches.

Paul is in the yard, shirtless in the morning light, swinging an axe with controlled precision. Fallen branches from last night's storm are scattered across the clearing, and he's methodically cutting them for firewood. His back is a landscape of muscle and scars, skin golden in the morning sunlight, his movements fluid and certain. A thin sheen of sweat makes his shoulders gleam.

I should step away from the window. I shouldn't be watching him like this, with this strange, hungry feeling building in my chest. But I can't look away.

He pauses, wiping his brow with his forearm, then glances toward the cabin—toward my window. I duck back instinctively, heart racing like I've been caught doing something illicit. When I dare to peek again, he's returned to his work, but there's the ghost of a smile on his lips.

He knows I was watching.

I dress quickly in jeans and a soft t-shirt, run my fingers through my hair in a futile attempt to tame it, and splash cold wateron my face. I look different somehow, even to myself—my eyes brighter, cheeks flushed with more than just sleep. I barely recognize the woman in the mirror.

The main room is warm now that the weather has cleared. Two mugs sit on the counter beside a French press full of coffee. On the table is a plate of what appears to be homemade bread, a jar of honey, and a bowl of wild berries. All waiting, as if he knew exactly when I'd wake.

I pour myself coffee, the rich aroma making my stomach growl, and carry it to the porch. The morning air is crisp and clean after the storm, the world washed new. Droplets of water cling to pine needles and sparkle in the sunlight like thousands of tiny prisms.

"Morning," Paul calls, setting down his axe and reaching for a worn t-shirt hanging on the porch railing. I feel an irrational pang of disappointment as he pulls it over his head, covering that expanse of skin and muscle. "Sleep well?"

"Better than I have in months," I admit, surprising myself with the truth of it. "No city noise. No notifications. Just... peace."

He climbs the steps to join me, and I'm suddenly aware of how small the porch feels with him on it.

"Breakfast is inside," he says, moving past me to retrieve his own mug of coffee. His arm brushes mine, and even that fleeting contact sends electricity skittering across my skin. "Nothing fancy. Just sourdough I baked yesterday and berries I picked at dawn."

"You bake?" I follow him inside, cradling my mug like a shield.

He shrugs, the simple movement rippling through his shoulders. "Living alone, you learn to make what you want."

"And what do you want, Paul?" The question slips out before I can catch it, weighted with more meaning than I intended.

His eyes lock onto mine, blue and clear and unflinching. "Things that last," he says simply.

We eat at the small table, sunshine pouring through the windows, the only sounds our forks against plates and the occasional call of a bird outside. The bread is crusty and perfect, the honey wild and complex, the berries sun-warmed and sweet.

"Your grandmother's diaries are in the chest," Paul says after a comfortable silence. "She'd want you to read them."

I glance toward the hidden compartment we explored last night. "I'm not sure I'm ready for that."

"You don't have to read them alone." He takes our empty plates to the sink. "Sometimes it helps to share the weight."

Twenty minutes later, we're sitting on the porch swing, the weathered wood smooth beneath my thighs. Paul has positioned himself at one end, giving me space, but our bodies still align from shoulder to knee. In my lap rests a leather-bound journal, its pages soft with age and handling.

"This one's from the summer you turned twelve," he explains. "She talked about that summer a lot."

My fingers trace the date written in my grandmother's flowing script. I remember that summer—the first time I stayed at the cabin alone with her, after my parents' divorce. I'd been angry, closed off, hurting. She never pushed, just let me be, giving me paints and space and quiet understanding.

I begin to read aloud, my voice catching on my grandmother's words:

"'Violet arrived today, all soft edges and silence. So much like her father in her stubbornness, so much like me in her heart. She doesn't know it yet, but this summer will save her, the way this mountain saved me when I was lost. Some souls need wilderness to find their center again.'"

My throat tightens. I hadn't known she saw me so clearly.

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