Page 4 of Mountain Man Summer

Jamie had texted five times in escalating urgency:

Update: Security footage shows someone leaving another package at the station for you.

Police reviewing but still can't ID the guy.

Contents: CD with a mix of songs about "destiny" and "forever love" + a collage of photos of you from station events. Creepy.

Management finally taking it seriously.

CALL ME.

My stomach tightened with familiar anxiety, but not terror. I sank onto the sofa, grateful for the distance between me and Chicago.

I called Jamie immediately. Our conversation was brief but resolute. The station had finally agreed to involve a private investigator after this latest incident, since the police hadn't been able to identify ChicagoNightOwl from the partial security footage. Security had been enhanced at the building entrances. My "vacation" cover remained intact—as far as anyone knew, I was taking a much-needed break at an undisclosed location after a stressful year.

After hanging up, I moved through the cabin methodically, checking locks, drawing curtains, securing windows. Through a sliver between kitchen drapes, movement caught my eye—Noah, standing on his deck, phone pressed to his ear, gaze sweeping the property with the unmistakable attention of a professional rather than casual interest.

Watching.

I dropped the curtain, pulse quickening. The rational part of my brain insisted it was innocent—just a neighbor noting lights in a previously vacant cabin. Not everyone harbored ulterior motives. Not everyone was like my obsessive fan, lurking in shadows and leaving unwanted "gifts."

But as I double-checked the locks before bed, unease flickered through me. I'd wedged myself between two perplexing situations: the threat I'd fled Chicago to escape, and something altogether different but equally unsettling next door—a man whose watchful eyes might see more than I wanted anyone to know.

I'd come to Hope Peak seeking sanctuary and solitude. Instead, I'd landed myself between a persistent admirer with boundary issues and a neighbor whose too-perceptive eyes seemed to see right through me.

So much for hiding in plain sight.

And worst of all? As I slipped between sheets still warm from the day's heat, it wasn't fear of my stalker that kept me awake, but the memory of sun-bronzed skin, impossible blue eyes, and the electric touch of Noah Sterling's hand against mine.

I'd fled Chicago to escape one man's unwanted attention, only to find myself unable to stop thinking about another's.

Chapter Two

“The Thin Blue Line”

Noah

The lake at dawn was my religion.

I sliced through the water with practiced strokes, each pull and kick cutting through the morning stillness. Five a.m. light filtered through the pines, casting long shadows across the glassy surface. The water—still cool before the day's heat took hold—shocked my system into full alertness, washing away the restless night's broken sleep.

My mind kept drifting back to the woman from Cabin 7.

Didi from Chicago. A tourist who claimed to be on vacation but whose eyes constantly scanned her surroundings with the vigilance of prey. I'd caught that wariness immediately during our impromptu water rescue. That, and the way her thin sundress had clung to her curves in the evening heat, outlining a body that would make a saint reconsider his vows.

I rolled onto my back, letting the water cradle me as I stared at the sky shifting from indigo to pale blue. The distant call of an osprey echoed across the water. My dock stretched nearby, the fresh boards I'd installed yesterday standing out against the weathered planks. Next to it, her dock remained empty, though a light had flickered on in her cabin moments before I'd begun my swim.

Was she an early riser too? Or just having trouble sleeping in unfamiliar surroundings?

Thirty more laps, then reluctantly I hauled myself onto the dock. Water sluiced down my six-foot-four frame as I toweled off, gaze involuntarily drifting toward Cabin 7. The kitchen curtain twitched—just slightly—but enough to confirm my suspicions.

She was watching me.

The realization sent a jolt of heat through my core that had nothing to do with the morning exercises. I took my time drying off, lingering longer than necessary before heading inside to dress for work. Let her look. I certainly had when our positions were reversed.

By six-thirty, I'd traded swim trunks for my department-issued uniform—dark blue tactical pants, light blue button-down with the Hope Peak Sheriff's Department patch on the sleeve, duty belt with standard gear. The badge felt heavier than usual as I pinned it to my chest.

I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror—sandy hair still damp from the shower, the scattered freckles across my nose and cheekbones more prominent after yesterday's sun exposure. My mother's Irish heritage visible in every one of those freckles and in the deep blue eyes that stared back at me, looking more distracted than I cared to admit.

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