Page 6 of Mountain Man Summer

Her response came quickly:

Sorry, not anymore. Been meaning to tell you—I'm seeing someone. Like, exclusively. Think he might be the one, Noah.

I stared at the message, surprised to feel only mild disappointment rather than rejection.

Good for you, I replied sincerely.He'd better treat you right.

He does, she texted back with a smiley face.Friends?

Always, I confirmed, setting my phone aside.

So Shawna had found "the one." Good for her. She deserved happiness after the string of losers she'd dated before our arrangement. I ignored the hollow feeling that expanded in my chest, the one that whispered I might be the only person in Hope Peak not moving forward with their life.

My Philly cheesesteak sat half-eaten as memories ambushed me with the stealth of well-trained attackers. Jessica,my wife of just shy of three years, announcing she "needed more excitement" than Hope Peak could offer, then moving to Seattle with her executive boyfriend two weeks later. The highway patrolman at our door, hat in hand, explaining about the patch of black ice, the semi-truck, the instantaneous nature of my parents' deaths. The silence of the cabin I'd inherited, my grandfather's fishing gear still hanging on the wall as if he might return to claim it.

Each loss had carved something from me, leaving a shell that functioned perfectly well as Hope Peak's detective but struggled with anything requiring emotional availability. I'd built a life around work and solitude, convincing myself it was by choice rather than fear.

I was better off focusing on what I could control—keeping the community safe, renovating my grandfather's cabin into something that felt like mine, protecting the lake that had been the one constant in my life. Entanglements led to pain. Better to keep things professional, casual, contained.

Which brought me back to the mystery woman next door.

By late afternoon, I'd wrapped the day's cases and headed home, the temperature climbing toward ninety as the July sun beat down mercilessly. My cabin offered immediate relief as the central air conditioning hit me—one of the major upgrades I'd installed during the renovation of the old place. I might embrace the rugged outdoor life in most ways, but Montana summers demanded modern solutions.

I changed into worn jeans and a faded t-shirt, then grabbed a beer from the fridge and stepped onto my deck. The heat hit like a physical wall after the cool interior, but the lake sparkled invitingly below. Maybe another swim before dinner would—

Movement on the neighboring dock caught my eye.

Didi stood at the edge, a fishing rod in one hand and what appeared to be a tangled mess of fishing line in the other. She wore cutoff shorts that showcased legs that seemed to stretch forever, and a tight tank top that showed off her assets. Her blonde hair was piled haphazardly atop her head, tendrils escaping to curl against her neck in the humidity.

Even from this distance, her frustration was evident as she attempted to thread the line through the rod's guides, the wind catching the loose strands and tangling them further. She muttered something I couldn't hear, then cast a longing glance at the cool water below.

I should mind my own business. Let her figure it out herself or give up trying.

Instead, I found myself walking down the path to my dock, then along the narrow strip of shared shoreline to hers. She didn't notice my approach at first, focused on the increasingly hopeless tangle in her hands.

"Didn't take you for the fishing type," I said.

She startled, nearly dropping the rod, then composed herself with visible effort. "There are a lot of things you don't know about me, Detective Sterling."

So she'd figured out my profession. Observant. Those green eyes assessed me with a mixture of guardedness and something else—interest, perhaps, though she was clearly trying to hide it.

"That's not a great knot for this lake," I said, nodding at her attempt. "The bass here will snap that in seconds."

She lifted her chin slightly. "I suppose you know a better one?"

"Been fishing these waters since I could walk," I replied, stepping closer. "Mind if I show you?"

A heartbeat of hesitation, then she held out the tangled mess. Our fingers brushed during the transfer, and that same electric awareness from yesterday's boat rescue sparked between us. From her quick intake of breath, I knew she felt it too.

"I'd appreciate the help," she said, her voice dropping into a lower register that sent heat rushing through me like wildfire.

As I began untangling her line, I studied her from beneath lowered lashes. Up close, I could see the faint smudges of fatigue beneath her eyes, the tension she carried in her shoulders despite her casual pose.

Didi from Chicago was running from something. Or someone.

And despite every instinct telling me to maintain professional distance, I found myself inexplicably drawn to her secrets—and to the beautiful woman keeping them.

Chapter Three

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