Page 11 of Mountain Man Summer

And that scared me far more than any stalker.

Chapter Four

“Dinner and Defenses”

Noah

I'd caught, cleaned, and cooked more lake bass than I could count over the years, but none had ever made me this nervous.

Back in my cabin after collecting Didi's catch, I surveyed my home through a stranger's eyes. The open floor plan suddenly felt too sparse, too utilitarian. I'd renovated my grandfather's old fishing cabin with practicality in mind—hardwood floors that wouldn't show dirt from my boots, stone countertops that could take a beating, furniture built for comfort rather than style. The place was clean but unmistakably masculine, with fishing gear organized on hooks by the door and framed topographical maps of Hope Peak Lake on the walls.

"Get a grip, Sterling," I muttered, firing up the grill on the deck. "It's just dinner."

But it wasn't just dinner, and I knew it. Something about Didi from Chicago had gotten under my skin in a way that hadn'thappened in years. Maybe it was the way she'd lit up when she caught that fish, her guard momentarily dropped to reveal genuine joy. Maybe it was how she scanned her surroundings with trained vigilance while trying to appear casual. Or maybe it was simply those curves that her tight summer clothes did little to conceal.

I filled a bowl with ice water and submerged Didi's bass, then gathered my cleaning supplies—sharp fillet knife, cutting board, bowl for scraps. The routine calmed me, automatic after years of practice. I'd just laid everything out when a knock at the door sent a jolt through me.

Didi stood on my porch holding a bottle of wine, her blonde hair falling loose past her shoulders. She'd changed into a simple sundress in a pale green that made her eyes practically glow in the evening light.

"I come bearing gifts," she said, her voice dropping into that melodic register that reminded me of warm honey. "Though I realize now I should have asked if you even drink wine."

"I'm not much of a wine expert," I said, holding the door wider, "but I've been known to enjoy a glass or two."

She stepped inside, and I caught the scent of something floral—her shampoo or perfume—that quickened my pulse. Her eyes widened slightly as she took in the cabin.

"Wow," she said, turning in a slow circle. "This is... not what I expected."

"Disappointed?" I asked, genuinely curious.

"The opposite," she replied, running her fingers along the stone countertop. "I was expecting mounted deer heads and beer can pyramids. This is beautiful."

Pride bloomed in my chest as she explored. The renovation had been my therapy after Jessica left—somethingtangible I could transform when everything else felt beyond my control. Every plank, tile, and fixture represented hours of work, sweat, and occasional blood.

"Did you do all this yourself?" she asked, admiring the hand-built pine shelving that separated the kitchen from the living room.

"Most of it. Called in professionals for the electrical and plumbing." I uncorked the wine she'd brought and poured two glasses. "Ready to see what becomes of your fishing triumph?"

She accepted the glass and followed me to the counter where I'd set up my cleaning station. "Is this the part where I get squeamish and you judge me for being a city girl?"

My lips curved upward. "No judgment. Not everyone grew up learning this stuff."

"Then I'm all eyes," she said, leaning against the counter beside me. "Teach me, Mountain Man."

The nickname sent an electric current down my spine. "First lesson—a sharp knife is safer than a dull one." I demonstrated the proper grip on my fillet knife. "You want clean, confident cuts."

Her attention fixed on my hands as I scaled the fish, my movements practiced and efficient. When I made the first cut behind the gills, she winced slightly but didn't look away.

"The key is knowing the anatomy," I explained, working the knife along the backbone. "Feel for the resistance, let the blade find the natural separation."

"There's something oddly graceful about watching you do this," she observed, sipping her wine. "Like someone with muscle memory for a complicated dance."

I glanced up, catching her eyes. "That's exactly what it is—muscle memory. My grandfather taught me when I was seven. Said a man should know how to feed himself from what nature provides."

"Smart man," she said softly.

"He was." I finished filleting, setting aside the perfectly cleaned pieces. "What about you? Who taught you to cook?"

"Bold of you to call my forays into the kitchen cooking," she laughed. "My culinary expertise stops at ordering takeout and heating up frozen meals. My mom worked double shifts most of my childhood, so dinner was whatever I could microwave for me and my sister. After that, I never bothered to learn properly."

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