Page 10 of Wrong Number, Right Mountain Man
"Check it," she sighs. "Your eye's twitching."
The screen shows another forest photo, morning light filtering through pine trees.
Beck: Morning hike view. Thought you'd appreciate the light.
Maya peers over. "At least he takes nice pictures. Josh's idea of romance was gym selfies."
"Beck notices things." The bakery opens at 5 AM, meaning proper sunrises haven't been seen in years. After mentioning it once, he started sending dawn photos daily. "He's thoughtful."
Maya's skepticism softens. "Meeting this guy soon?"
"Maybe." The idea terrifies and thrills in equal measure. "What if there's no chemistry?"
"What if there is?"
"What if he hates how my laugh sounds? Josh said it resembled a pig snorting."
"Josh was an asshole." Maya checks her watch. "Budget meeting with Dragon Lady. Promise me when you meet Mountain Man, you'll follow basic safety protocols. Public place, tell someone where you're going, text me hourly confirmation you haven't been murdered."
"And the reward for the most dramatic friend goes to..."
"This is serious." Maya stands, gathering her designer purse that costs more than my monthly rent. "Happiness is what matters to me, not featuring you on a true crime podcast."
After she leaves, Beck's photo gets stared at. The coffee shop bustles around me, and I barely notice as a businessman spills his latte, teenagers take selfies in the corner, the barista flirts with a customer who's leaving an absurd tip. My normal world feels distant from the mountain life Beck describes.
The day we almost called turned into an accidental FaceTime. The screen flashed his face for three seconds before he panicked and ended it. Just long enough to see the beard, the crinkles around his eyes. Hours were spent analyzing those three seconds.
His hands fascinate me most. From his photos, they're tanned and capable, with a small scar across the right knuckles he got from a childhood fishing accident. He uses those hands to build things, fix things, care for things. Imagining them on my skin happens at inappropriate moments.
Yesterday during a wedding consultation, the bride's question about fondant got missed because wondering if Beck's fingers would feel rough or smooth against my collarbone took priority.
Me: Beautiful. Keep wondering what it's like there. What you're like there.
The send button gets hit, then I can’t help myself and another message follows.
Me: Keep wondering what your hands feel like.
His response comes faster than expected.
Beck: Keep wondering. Maybe someday you'll find out.
The simple promise makes me nearly drop my phone into my coffee. The barista gives a concerned look as my face gets fanned.
Me: I dream about you sometimes. Is that weird to admit?
Beck: What happens in these dreams?
My heart pounds against my ribs.
Me: Sometimes we're just talking. Standing in your kitchen or walking through the woods. Other times...
Beck: Other times?
Heat floods my cheeks as fingers hover over the keyboard. Am I really doing this? It’s one thing not to have a filter in person, but to have written evidence?
Me: Other times you're touching me. Your hands exploring every inch while you whisper what you want to do to me. I wake up so wet and frustrated that my own fingers aren't enough.
Three dots appear, disappear, appear again. The coffee shop feels too small, too public.
