Page 8 of Adored By the Mountain Man

“Not bad?” She turns to face me, eyes wide. “This is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. How come I’ve never known about this? And how is this not crawling with people?”

“Most folks don’t want to hike miles to a secluded lake when they can just as easily drive to some viewpoint near a parking lot.” I drop my pack near a flat area about twenty feet from the water’s edge. “Plus, the trail’s not marked on most maps, only the first part.”

She’s still staring out at the water, mesmerized. The evening light catches her hair, and something in my chest tightens. She belongs here somehow, like she was made to stand on this shore with the mountains rising behind her. With me behind her.

“The kids are going to love this,” she says softly. “But we’ve got to tell them this needs to stay a well-kept secret.”

I shrug. “We’ll have them sign a non-disclosure agreement before they start the hike.”

That gets a laugh out of her, and fucking hell, when her entire face lights up, she looks like an angel.

I unpack my gear before I do something stupid like stare at her all evening. “First rule of wilderness camping is to make camp before you lose the light. We’ve got half an hour, tops.”

That snaps her out of her thoughts. She drops her pack and starts pulling things out haphazardly. A sleeping bag, a huge camp pillow, a cooking set with pots and pans, enough clothes for a month-long expedition, a giant blow-up camping mattress, and a toiletry bag that takes up half her pack space.

“Callie.” My voice comes out rougher than I intended. “What exactly do you think we’re doing out here?”

She pauses, holding what looks like a portable coffee maker. “Camping?”

“Exactly. Camping isn’t glamping. You don’t need half this stuff.” I walk over and start sorting through her pile. “One change of clothes, sleeping bag, basic toiletries. That’s it.”

“But what if it gets cold? What if it rains? What if—”

“Then you deal with it. That’s the point. One rain jacket, a warm sleeping bag, and a sleeping pad with good insulation already take care of most of your worries.” I hold up the coffee maker. “The kids you’re bringing out here don’t get to pack luxury items like bulky coffee makers. They get what you give them and what they can carry on their backs. If you can’t handle one night without your conveniences, how are you going to teach them to do it for six weeks?”

Her cheeks flush, but instead of backing down, she snatches the coffee maker from my hands. “Fine. You’re right. But I’m keeping this because coffee is not a luxury; it’s a necessity.”

Despite myself, I almost smile.Almost.

We set up camp in efficient silence, but I find myself watching her more than I should. Something is mesmerizing about the way she bites her lower lip when she’s concentrating and about how she pushes her hair back from her face every time it falls forward.

By the time we’re done setting up, the sun is starting to dip behind the mountains, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that reflect perfectly in the still water. Callie stands at theedge of the lake, arms wrapped around herself as she watches Mother Nature’s evening show.

“I can see why you like to come here,” she says without turning around.

I join her at the water’s edge, close enough that I can smell her intoxicating scent again. “Yeah. It’s quiet.”

“Is that what you need? Quiet?”

The question catches me off guard. Most people don’t ask me direct questions like that, and I sure as hell don’t answer them. But something about the way she’s looking at the lake, not at me, makes it easier to be honest and open.

“Sometimes.” I pick up a smooth stone and skip it across the water.

She nods like she understands, even though she couldn’t possibly. “My brother said you used to guide tours. Before.”

Before. Such a simple word for something that split my life in two.

“I did.”

“What happened?”

The blood drains from my body. I should shut this down. Should tell her it’s none of her business and change the subject. But the lake has always made me honest, even when I don’t want to be. And she’s not prying. She’s being genuine.

“An accident. Almost lost some people, but SAR got to them in time. I lost some fingers.” I hold up my left hand, showing her the missing fingers. “Lost my nerve.”

She’s quiet for a long moment, and I kind of expect pity or awkward condolences. Instead, she picks up a stone and tries to skip it. It plops into the water immediately.

“Terrible form,” I say.

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