Page 10 of Mountain Man's City Girl
"And I'm the Queen of England."
I glance back in time to see her grinning, eyes bright with amusement. The morning sun dapples through the pine canopy, creating a shifting pattern of light and shadow across her face. Something tugs in my chest.
"So, what's next on the—whoa!"
Her foot catches on an exposed root, and she pitches forward. I react without thinking, spinning and catching her before she falls. My hands grip her upper arms, steadying her. For a moment, we freeze like that—her body half-fallen into mine, my hands the only thing keeping her upright. I feel the warmth of her skin through her thin jacket, smell the clean scent of her shampoo.
Her breath catches. Mine stops entirely.
"Nice reflexes," she murmurs, looking up at me. Our faces are too close. I can see flecks of amber in her brown eyes, count individual lashes.
"Watch your step," I manage, voice rougher than I intend.
"Why, when you'll catch me?" She smiles, something knowing in her expression. "My hero."
I release her and step back, suddenly desperate for space. "We should keep moving."
"Sure thing, Sasquatch." She straightens her jacket, still smiling. "Lead on."
We continue down the trail, but something has changed again. The air between us feels charged, like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks. I'm too aware of her presence behind me—every breath, every footfall, every soft hum as she processes the morning's images in her mind.
By the time we reach the cabin clearing, the sun is fully up, warming the crisp mountain air. Jade heads straight for the main cabin door without hesitation, as if she belongs there.
"Make yourself at home," I say dryly as she steps inside.
"Plan to." She shrugs off her jacket, revealing a fitted thermal that clings to curves I'm trying very hard not to notice. "Coffee?"
"There's instant in the cupboard above the sink."
She makes a face. "Instant? What kind of wilderness hell is this? Don't you have a French press or something?"
"Do I look like I run a coffee shop?"
"You look like someone who appreciates quality," she counters, already opening cupboards. "Aha! Knew it."
She pulls out my rarely-used French press with a triumphant smile and sets about making coffee like she's done it here a hundred times. I stand in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, watching her move through my space with easy confidence.
She hums while she works, fingers tapping against the counter as she waits for the kettle to boil. Her tongue peeks out in concentration as she measures grounds. Every small motion feels oddly intimate in my kitchen—this space that's been mine alone for so long.
"So," she says, glancing up and catching me watching her. "What's on the agenda for today's shoot?"
I clear my throat. "There's a ridge to the east. Good view of the valley."
"We just came from the east."
"Different ridge. Higher up."
She raises an eyebrow. "Details, Victor. I need more than 'it's a ridge.' What makes it special? What's the story?"
I shift my weight, uncomfortable with her pushing. But her eyes are bright with genuine interest, not just professional curiosity.
"There's an old fire watchtower," I say finally. "Only occasionally used. Good vantage point. You can see three mountain ranges from up there."
"A fire tower?" Her face lights up. "That's perfect! Exactly the kind of hidden sanctuary the magazine wants. Can we get inside?"
"Yes." I hesitate. "An old friend has the keys. He worked there for years, still keeps an eye on it."
She grins, pouring the now-ready coffee into two mugs. "Look at you, with connections and everything. And here I thought you were just a hermit who scared away the local wildlife."
