Page 2 of Forever with the Mountain Man
He leads me to a clipboard hanging on the wall. "Room 12's already finished. You could work there temporarily."
It's not ideal, but it's something. "Could I really? I mean, would that be okay?"
"Door's unlocked." He shrugs.
For a moment, I'm so relieved I could hug him. Then I remember where I am and who I'm talking to, and I settle for a grateful smile instead. "Thank you. That helps enormously."
He nods once and turns back to his work, but as I start to leave, he speaks again.
"Your room will be worth the wait. Doing it right this time."
There's something reassuring about his confidence, the way he states things as simple facts rather than empty promises. I find myself wanting to stay, to keep talking to him, but I can hear his crew arriving in the parking lot and the sound of power tools starting up again.
"Thank you," I say quietly. "I really appreciate you letting me use this room."
He meets my eyes again, and for a moment the professional mask slips. "They're lucky to have you," he says simply.
I leave him to his work, but as I set up my temporary workspace in the open classroom, I can't stop thinking about those green eyes and the way my name sounded in his voice. Ikeep finding excuses to walk past the construction zone, telling myself I'm just checking on the progress.
Each time I catch a glimpse of him—consulting with his crew, measuring twice before cutting, handling tools with the kind of expertise that comes from decades of experience—I feel that same flutter in my stomach.
This is dangerous. Finn O'Sullivan is at least fifteen years older than me. I should be dating someone appropriate—a teacher, or maybe one of the young professionals who work at the bank. Someone Dad would approve of.
But as I watch him work through my classroom window, the afternoon sun highlighting the silver in his hair as he carefully measures a beam, I can't seem to look away.
two
Finn
ThemomentCarolineCooperwalks around that corner, I know I'm in trouble.
She's tiny—can't be more than five-foot-two—with long brown hair twisted up in a messy bun secured with what looks like colored pencils. Her reading glasses have slipped down her nose, and there's already a smudge of something purple on her white cardigan. She looks like every schoolteacher fantasy I've ever had, and her obvious frustration about not being able to access her classroom makes something protective stir in my chest.
Especially since she's Vernon Cooper's daughter.
I've been in Silver Ridge for five years, long enough to know that Vernon's little girl is off-limits to guys like me. She's educated, comes from a good family, probably has her pick of suitable young men. Last thing she needs is a rough-around-the-edges contractor who's never settled down.
But watching her try to negotiate access to her classroom, seeing the genuine worry in her eyes about her students' firstday, I find myself reassessing my first impression. She's not just another entitled princess upset about inconvenience, she's a dedicated teacher who cares deeply about doing right by her kids.
The genuine relief on her face when I offer her the spare room tells me everything I need to know about her priorities. Most people would have demanded to know why their space wasn't ready, and would have complained about the inconvenience. She just wants to do her job.
After she leaves, I catch myself watching for her through the windows. She's set up a workspace in the third-grade classroom, and I can see her through the doorway, organizing supplies with the same attention to detail I put into my work. She's got stacks of books sorted by reading level, art supplies arranged by color, and what looks like a mountain of educational materials waiting to be laminated.
The kind of organized chaos that speaks to someone who genuinely loves what they do.
I push those thoughts away and focus on the task at hand. The electrical problems in her classroom are worse than I initially thought, but they're not insurmountable. Just means longer days and careful planning. I've built my reputation on doing things right the first time, and I'm not about to compromise that now.
My phone buzzes with a text from my sister back in Vancouver.How's the small-town life treating you? Still no girlfriend?
I grit my teeth and type back a simpleWorkingbefore shoving the phone back in my pocket. Sarah's been on my case about settling down since I hit thirty-five, as if finding the right woman is as simple as picking out lumber at the supply yard. She doesn't understand that some of us are better off alone.
Around noon, Caroline appears with a plate of homemade cookies and a glass of iced tea. She's changed out of the cardigan into a simple blue dress that makes her eyes look like warm chocolate.
"I thought you might be hungry," she says, setting the refreshments on my work table. "It's supposed to hit ninety-five degrees today."
The cookies taste like childhood—chocolate chip with just the right amount of salt. I haven't had homemade cookies in years.
"Thank you." I take a long drink of the tea, sweet and cold and exactly what I needed. "You didn't have to do this."
