Page 11 of Mountain Man's City Girl
"The tower's been decommissioned for almost a year now," I explain, surprised at my own willingness to share details. "Park Service replaced it with satellite monitoring and drones. But they kept the structure as a historical site."
"Really? That's unusual for them. Budget cuts usually mean demolition."
I shrug. "George Humphrey—the friend I mentioned—he fought for it. Has a soft spot for the place after working there so many years. We maintain it occasionally, keep it from falling apart."
"So it's still accessible? Not all boarded up?"
"It's intact. He’s talked about turning it into some kind of educational center eventually, but for now it's just... waiting."
Her eyes light up. "That's perfect for the story. A preserved piece of history, hidden in plain sight." She studies me over her mug.
The sunlight catches in her hair again, and I find myself wondering what it would feel like between my fingers. The thought ambushes me, unwelcome and impossible to dismiss.
"We should eat before we head out," I say abruptly, needing something to do with my hands that isn't touching her. "It's a long hike."
"I'll help." She sets down her mug. "What are we making?"
"Just sandwiches. Nothing fancy."
Side by side at the counter, we assemble a simple lunch. Ham, cheese, the last tomato from my greenhouse. Her shoulder occasionally brushes mine as she reaches for ingredients, and each contact sends a jolt through me that I refuse to acknowledge.
"So," she says casually, spreading mustard on bread, "what happened after the TV show? Why disappear completely?"
I tense. "It's not important."
"It is to me." Her voice is soft, not pushing, just there.
I focus on slicing cheese with unnecessary precision. "The network wanted more drama. More danger. I wasn't interested in faking survival scenarios for ratings."
"That must have been frustrating."
"It was dishonest," I say, surprising myself with the admission. "People would watch and think they knew how to survive real situations. Could get someone killed."
She nods, understanding in her eyes. "So you walked away from it all."
"They ran a story. Said I had a breakdown. That I was unstable." The old anger flickers. "Made me into some cautionary tale about fame and pressure."
"And you came here to get away from all that."
"I came here because it's the only place that's ever made sense." I wrap the sandwiches in wax paper, avoiding her gaze. "People are exhausting. They want pieces of you until there's nothing left."
She's quiet for a moment, just standing there, close enough that I can feel her warmth. Then, softly: "You deserve more than being everyone's cautionary tale."
The words hit somewhere tender, unexpectedly precise. I don't know how to respond, so I don't. But when she reaches past me for a water bottle, I don't step back like I normally would.
Her arm brushes my chest, and I let it happen.
An hour later, we're halfway up the trail to the fire tower. It's steeper than the morning hike, rockier, with sections where the path narrows to barely a foot wide along a sheer drop. Jadeinsists on carrying her own gear despite my offer to take the heavy camera bag.
"I've got it," she says for the third time, slightly breathless but determined. "Been hauling this equipment up mountains for years."
I walk behind her, partly to catch her if she slips, partly because I don't trust myself not to stare if she's behind me. She moves with surprising strength for someone so small, tackling the incline with stubborn persistence. Every now and then she lets out a little grunt of effort or mutters a curse under her breath, but she keeps going.
"You can take a break," I offer when we reach a particularly steep section.
"I'm fine," she grits out, wiping sweat from her forehead. Her cheeks are flushed with exertion, curls plastered to her temples. She looks alive in a way that makes my chest ache.
"We're not in a race."
