Page 12 of Mountain Man's City Girl
"Says the man who walks like he's being chased by bears." She adjusts her pack and continues upward. "I can keep up."
I bite back a smile at her determination. She reminds me of someone—myself, maybe, before life wore down my edges. Before I learned that some mountains aren't worth climbing.
The trail curves around a massive boulder, and suddenly the view opens up, a panoramic vista of the valley below, mountains rising in the distance, the ribbon of river catching sunlight like polished silver. Jade stops so abruptly I nearly collide with her.
"Oh my God," she breathes, already reaching for her camera.
But I'm not looking at the view. I'm watching her—the way she tilts her head slightly as she frames a shot, the curve of her lips as she focuses, the complete absorption in her expression. She's fully present in this moment, open to beauty in a way I haven't been for years.
She turns, catching me watching her. Instead of looking away, I hold her gaze.
"What?" she asks, lowering her camera.
"Just..." I hesitate, "You look like you belong here."
A slow smile spreads across her face—not teasing this time, but something softer, more genuine. "That might be the nicest thing you've said to me."
"Don't get used to it."
She laughs, but her eyes stay on mine, searching for something. I'm not sure what she finds, but whatever it is makes her smile deepen.
"Too late," she says quietly. "I'm already getting used to you, Victor Myers."
The words settle between us, weighted with possibility. I should step back. I should remind her—remind myself—that this is temporary. In less than two days, she'll be gone, back to her life in the city, and I'll be alone again.
But standing here, with sunlight painting her face and mountains spread at our feet, I'm no longer sure that's what I want.
She turns back to the view, camera raised again, and I let myself watch her work. Let myself acknowledge what I've been fighting since she stepped in my cabin: I don't want her to leave.
Chapter 5 – Jade
The last stretch of ladder leading up to the fire tower platform makes my thighs burn. Or maybe that's just the awareness of Victor climbing behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from him, hear each measured breath. I focus on the rungs—weathered wood, worn smooth by years of hands just like mine—because focusing on anything else feels dangerous right now.
"Almost there," he calls from below, his voice vibrating through the metal frame.
I don't trust myself to answer. Instead, I push upward those final few feet, emerging onto the observation deck like a swimmer breaking the surface. The sudden expanse of sky and space makes me dizzy—or maybe that's just the altitude. Or maybe it's him.
When my breathing steadies, I turn in a slow circle, and the world opens up around me.
"Oh my God," I whisper.
Mountains stretch to the horizon in every direction, undulating waves of deep green fading to misty blue in the distance. Directly below, the forest canopy spreads like a rumpled emerald blanket. A river cuts through the valley, catching sunlight in flashes of silver. To the west, storm clouds gather over a distant ridge, dark and dramatic against the otherwise clear sky.
Victor steps onto the platform behind me, his presence solid and warm at my back.
"Worth the climb?" he asks quietly.
"Worth everything." The words come out more sincere than I intended, but I don't take them back.
The Fox Ridge Lookout Tower rises from the highest point for miles, a sentinel in faded gray wood bleached silver in places by decades of mountain weather. The wraparound deck gives a perfect 360-degree view, and above us, the actual lookout cabin perches like a glass jewel box, windows on all sides to catch every possible angle of sky and forest.
I raise my camera instinctively, trying to capture the immensity of the landscape, but it feels like trying to bottle the ocean. I adjust settings, try different lenses, but something is missing.
Then I turn, and there's Victor, leaning against the railing at the edge of the deck. The wind teases strands of his hair, and his profile is etched against the vast backdrop of mountains. His eyes are distant, looking at something beyond the visible.
I snap the photo before I can think better of it. The shutter clicks, loud in the quiet.
He turns, and I brace for the scowl, the reminder not to photograph him. But it doesn't come. Instead, he just looks at me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
