Page 2 of Mountain Man Summer

Wiping a fresh trickle of sweat from my neck, I caught my reflection in the small mirror above the desk. My skin glistened in the late afternoon light, heat bringing a flush to my cheeks that no makeup could replicate. At least isolation meant I didn't need to worry about appearances.

By early evening, I couldn't bear the cabin's stifling atmosphere any longer, despite the air conditioner's valiant efforts. The back deck beckoned, promising at least the psychological relief of open space, if not actual cooling breezes.

The wooden planks had absorbed the day's heat, warm through my thin-soled sandals. I leaned against the railing, surveying my temporary kingdom—lake stretching to thehorizon, mountains rising beyond, sunset painting everything in warm amber light that would have been beautiful if it didn't remind me how long this heat had been baking everything.

A gravel path led down to my private dock, and I followed it, breathing in the heady mix of pine resin and freshwater. Cicadas buzzed relentlessly, their chorus punctuated by the occasional splash of jumping fish. My gaze swept the tree line—a habit born from months of feeling watched—before I allowed myself to relax marginally.

Movement on the neighboring dock caught my eye, and I froze.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt this peaceful moment to bring you breaking developments from the Department of Unexpected Scenery," I whispered to myself, unable to tear my gaze away.

My dock neighbor was male, gloriously, unapologetically bare-chested, repairing loose boards with single-minded focus. From my vantage point, I couldn't help but appreciate the view: broad shoulders carved from what must be years of outdoor work, a tapered torso that narrowed to a trim waist, defined abs visible even from this distance. Muscles shifted beneath sun-bronzed skin as he worked. Sandy hair, darkened with sweat at the temples, caught the golden light of the setting sun.

Something molten pooled low in my belly, a heat entirely separate from the summer air. It had been months since I'd allowed myself to look at a man with anything but suspicion, but this... this was pure, primal appreciation.

With each swing of his hammer, muscles rippled across his back in a mesmerizing display of controlled power. Sweat highlighted the definition of his shoulders, tracing paths down to the waistband of his worn jeans. His strong jawline remainedfocused on his task, a study in concentration. The golden evening light caught the scattered freckles across his nose and cheekbones, adding an unexpected touch of boyishness to his otherwise rugged appearance.

He fixed the dock with unwavering attention, not a wasted motion in sight. His movements spoke of discipline and precision—qualities I'd stopped associating with men after my last relationship imploded spectacularly, followed by my stalker situation.

I was still staring—conducting thorough observational research, obviously—when he straightened and turned toward me.

Even across the water, his gaze hit me like a physical thing. My pulse quickened, and I found myself holding my breath. Those eyes—blue enough to rival the lake itself—locked onto mine with unsettling directness. Something in his stance made me want to both retreat and step closer. The hammer hung loosely from one hand, his chest rising and falling with exertion in the thick evening air.

I backed away hastily, nearly tripping over a coil of rope. By the time I'd regained my balance, he'd returned to his task, but not before I caught the hint of amusement at the corners of his mouth.

Fantastic. Less than an hour in town and already providing entertainment for the locals.

As I retreated to my cabin, my body hummed with an awareness I'd nearly forgotten existed. The last thing my carefully constructed hideout needed was distraction in the form of six-plus feet of mountain-hewn male perfection next door.

Restlessness drove me outdoors again after nightfall. The resort welcome packet mentioned boat rentals at the main dock,and a sunset cruise promised the perfect reconnaissance mission—plus the hope of catching a cooling breeze off the water.

I changed into a sundress thin enough for the heat but modest enough for public appearance. The lightweight fabric still clung uncomfortably to my damp skin as I walked the path to the resort's main area, making me feel more exposed than appropriate despite the modest cut.

The main dock buzzed with early evening activity—families corralling children and equipment after day trips, couples embarking on sunset cruises. An older man with leathery skin helped me select a small motorboat, rattling off instructions my anxiety-addled brain half-registered while my eyes performed their now-habitual sweep for anyone paying undue attention.

"Just bring her back before dusk settles in," he concluded, dropping the key into my palm. "Lake gets tricky to navigate after sunset if you don't know the underwater geography."

"No problem," I assured him, projecting confidence I didn't remotely feel. How difficult could it be to pilot a glorified bathtub with an outboard motor attached?

Twenty minutes later, I had my humbling answer.

The boat itself wasn't the issue. Starting had been straightforward enough. It was the stopping—or rather, steering while attempting to stop—that presented the challenge. Specifically, my inability to maneuver away from a menacing outcrop of rocks I was drifting toward with increasing speed.

"And here, folks, is what we call 'dead air'—that exquisite moment when you realize you have precisely zero idea what happens next," I said aloud, falling back on humor as my anxiety flared.

I jammed the throttle into what I hoped was reverse. The boat lurched sideways, bringing the rocks into knife-edge focus. I cut the engine entirely, praying physics might intervene, but a treacherous breeze nudged me steadily toward what promised to be a mortifying shipwreck.

Just as I contemplated the indignity of shouting for shoreline assistance, another boat appeared, cutting through the water with confident ease. Its captain handled the craft like someone born to it, killing the engine and gliding alongside my floundering vessel with irritating precision.

To my dismay, it was Dock Neighbor, now sporting a threadbare navy t-shirt that did absolutely nothing to diminish his impact. Up close, I realized he was older than I'd initially judged—mid-thirties probably, with features that balanced rugged angles against unexpected gentleness around the eyes. His eyes, now narrowed slightly, were the impossible blue of deep water. Scattered freckles dusted his nose and cheekbones, somehow making him even more appealing.

"Engine trouble?" he asked, his voice a deep rumble that vibrated across the water and seemed to resonate somewhere low in my body.

"Operator incompetence," I admitted, refusing to shrink despite the heat crawling up my neck. "Evidently my broadcasting skills don't translate to nautical ventures."

Something flashed across his features—a hint of recognition?—before his expression closed into neutral territory. "You're drifting into Miller's Rocks."

"The rocks weren't on my itinerary," I replied, grasping for dignity despite my ridiculous predicament.

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