Page 1 of Forever with the Mountain Man
one
Caroline
IarriveatSilverRidge Elementary at seven-thirty on a sweltering August morning, my arms loaded with lesson plans and laminated alphabet cards. School starts in exactly fourteen days, and my classroom is nowhere near ready thanks to the construction delays that have pushed everything back by three weeks.
The parking lot is already busy with work trucks and equipment. I spot the contractor's vehicle immediately—a massive black pickup that dwarfs my little car.O'Sullivan Constructionis painted on the side in bold letters, and seeing it makes my stomach flutter with anxiety.
I just need access to my classroom. That's all. The kindergarten wing was supposed to be finished by now so I could spend these last two weeks setting up learning centers, organizing supplies, and creating the warm, welcoming environment my five-year-olds deserve. Instead, I'm stuck waiting for contractors who probably don't understand that"getting the room done" means more than just slapping on a coat of paint.
The morning air is already thick with humidity, promising another scorching day. I adjust my cardigan—completely inappropriate for the weather, but it's what I always wear. Professional. Put-together. The kind of teacher parents trust with their children.
I unlock the main doors and step into the blessed coolness of the air-conditioned building. My footsteps echo in the empty hallways as I make my way to my classroom, but I can already hear the sound of power tools from the construction zone.
My kindergarten classroom should be ready by now—new flooring, fresh paint, updated electrical for all the learning stations I've planned. But when I try my key in the lock, I find yellow caution tape blocking my door and the sound of power tools echoing from inside.
What I see when I round the corner stops me dead in my tracks.
A man stands with his back to me, studying blueprints spread across a sawhorses table. He's tall with broad shoulders that strain against a gray t-shirt damp with sweat. Dark hair with silver threading through it at the temples. When he shifts his weight, the muscles in his back move beneath the thin fabric, and I have to press my hand against the wall for support.
This is definitely not what I expected fromO'Sullivan Construction.
As if sensing my presence, he turns around, and I'm struck by the most beautiful green eyes I've ever seen. They're the color of pine needles, serious and assessing as they take me in. His face is weathered from years of outdoor work, with laugh lines around his eyes and a jaw that looks like it was carved from granite.
"You're early," he says, his voice deep and gravelly. Not accusatory, just stating a fact.
"I—Yes." I clear my throat and step forward, trying to project confidence I don't feel. "I'm Caroline Cooper. This is supposed to be my classroom, but there's tape across my door."
Something flickers in his expression. "Vernon's daughter."
Of course he knows Dad. Everyone in Silver Ridge knows Vernon Cooper and his Silver Lodge. "That's right. And you must be Mr. O'Sullivan."
"Finn." He doesn't offer his hand, just nods briefly. "Room's not ready."
My heart sinks. "When will it be? School starts in two weeks, and I have twenty-two five-year-olds who need—"
"End of the week. Maybe next Monday."
"Maybe?" The word comes out higher than I intended. "Mr. O'Sullivan, I need certainty. I have bulletin boards to put up, learning centers to organize, name tags to make. I can't do any of that until I can get into my room."
His expression doesn't change. "Electrical work's behind schedule. The previous contractor used substandard wiring. Safety hazard."
I take a deep breath, trying to channel the professional demeanor I've been practicing. "I understand safety is important, but I need to know what I'm dealing with. Is there any way I can at least get some of my supplies in there? Set up the reading corner?"
For the first time, he looks at me with consideration. "Power's off. No lights, no outlets. Not safe for you to be working in there."
"What about the library?"
"Talk to the principal about that." He's already turning back to his work, dismissing me.
The professional brush-off stings more than it should, but I'm not giving up that easily. "Mr. O'Sullivan—Finn—I know construction delays happen. But these are kindergarteners we're talking about. They need their classroom to feel safe andwelcoming from day one. If I can't get in there until the weekend before school starts, they're going to walk into a room that smells like paint and sawdust with bare walls and empty shelves."
He stops what he's doing and looks at me again. "You care about those kids."
"Of course I care about them. It's my job to care about them."
"Not just a job."
The observation catches me off guard. "No," I admit. "Not just a job."
