Page 3 of Mountain Man Summer

He exhaled, reaching for a coiled rope at his feet. "Line. Secure it to that cleat near the bow."

The rope arced perfectly across my boat. I snatched it, fumbling with the knot he'd described.

"Not like—" He cut himself off with a slight shake of his head. "Let me."

He maneuvered his boat alongside mine, then vaulted across the gap with the easy confidence of someone who'd made that jump a thousand times before.

The boat's dimensions seemed to shrink around his presence. He smelled of sun-warmed skin, cedar, and whatever that male pheromone was that bypassed my brain entirely and headed straight for more primitive regions. He secured the rope with weathered, capable hands. When our fingers brushed accidentally, a jolt ran between us that had nothing to do with static. His eyes flicked to mine, acknowledging the contact before refocusing on the task.

I was suddenly, uncomfortably aware of how my dress clung to my skin, how the thin fabric left little to the imagination after hours in the heat. His proximity made it hard to breathe, the air between us charged with something beyond the day's lingering warmth.

"Noah Sterling," he said as he moved to examine the engine. "Local. You're in Cabin 7?"

Not a question. He knew precisely where I was staying, which confirmed he was my immediate neighbor. Wonderful.

"Didi," I replied, offering only my nickname. "Just drove in from Chicago. For vacation," I added, the lie coming easily after weeks of crafting cover stories.

"Hmm." The sound carried volumes of skepticism as he inspected the controls. "Gear's stuck. Push here. All the way."

He demonstrated with a quick adjustment, then stepped away. "Try it now."

I followed his instruction, and the boat responded smoothly, edging away from the looming rocks.

"Thank you," I managed, genuine gratitude wrestling with wounded pride. "I would have sorted it out eventually, but... I appreciate the intervention."

"Eventually might have been after you'd given Miller's Rocks a new paint job," he observed, voice dry as kindling. "Lake turns treacherous fast."

His tone carried something beyond mere condescension—the weariness of someone who'd fished too many careless tourists from these waters.

"I'll bear that in mind," I replied, unable to keep the edge from my voice. "I'm grateful for the rescue, but I can handle myself."

His expression shifted, those blue eyes taking me in with a thoroughness that felt almost physical. "Where's your life jacket?"

I glanced down, noting with chagrin the life jacket I'd stashed beneath the seat instead of wearing.

"Oops. I'm typically more cautious," I said, which was sort of true.

"Most people are, until they aren't," he replied with cryptic finality, then nodded toward shore. "Follow my wake back."

Without awaiting response, he leapt back to his own vessel with a grace that defied his size, fired up the engine, and began a measured course toward the resort's main dock.

I followed, torn between annoyance and unwanted fascination with my surly mountain man savior. Everything about him screamed law enforcement or military—the keen eyes, the efficient movements, the rapid assessment of thesituation. Exactly the type of person I didn't need scrutinizing my hastily constructed cover story and risking unwanted attention.

Back at the dock, he secured my boat with minimal conversation, his hands working knots I couldn't have managed with an instructional video and three practice sessions. I couldn't help noticing how his wet shirt clung to his torso, outlining every ridge of muscle across his chest and abdomen.

"Thank you again," I offered as we stepped onto the main dock. "For the timely rescue and impromptu boating lesson."

"Just doing my job," he replied, one corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "Can't have tourists drowning in our lake."

"I wasn't going to drown," I protested. "Shipwreck, certainly. Mild humiliation, definitely. But drowning seemed like an outside possibility."

That almost-smile deepened fractionally. "Tell that to Miller's Rocks."

Before I could muster a suitably cutting retort, he nodded once. "Welcome to Hope Peak, Didi from Chicago. Watch yourself out there." His tone carried a weight beyond casual advice—more professional assessment than neighborly concern.

With that enigmatic parting shot, he turned and strode away, leaving me with the uncomfortable certainty that he'd learned more from our brief encounter than I'd intended to reveal.

I returned to my cabin as twilight bled into darkness, trying to shake our encounter from my thoughts. Inside, the messages awaiting on my phone jolted me back to harsh reality.

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