Page 13 of Mountain Man's City Girl
"Sorry," I say, not meaning it at all. "Couldn't resist the composition."
"It's fine." His voice is rough, like he hasn't used it in a while.
"Really? No lecture about consent and journalistic ethics?"
The corner of his mouth twitches. "Maybe I'm getting used to you."
Something warm unfurls in my chest at the admission. "Careful. That almost sounded like you like having me around."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." I grin, gesturing to the tower. "You brought me to your secret hideout. That's practically a declaration of friendship."
He snorts, but doesn't deny it. "Come on. I'll show you the inside."
The lookout cabin is a single room, maybe fifteen feet square, with windows on all four sides. One wall is covered in maps—topographical charts of the surrounding wilderness, marked with notations I can't decipher. Another wall holds a simple kitchenette: a two-burner propane stove, a tiny sink, a few cupboards. A narrow cot sits in one corner, neatly made with a wool blanket. A desk faces the eastern window, topped with logbooks and a pair of high-powered binoculars.
The space is spare but not stark—there are touches of humanity in the worn spines of books stacked on a shelf, a mug left on the desk, a jacket hanging from a hook. It feels lived-in, cared for.
"George still comes up sometimes when there's high fire danger," Victor explains, moving to open a window. "And sometimes I stay overnight when I need..." He trails off.
"Space?" I offer.
He nods, something guarded in his expression.
I set my camera down on the desk and sink onto a wooden chair, suddenly aware of how tired my legs are after the long climb. Victor passes me a water bottle from his pack, and I drink gratefully.
The quiet settles around us—not awkward, but weighted, like the air before a thunderstorm. Through the open window, I canhear the wind in the trees far below, the occasional call of a bird. Nothing else. No traffic, no voices, no hum of electronics. Just silence, thick and almost sacred.
"I was nervous about this assignment," I admit, surprising myself. "Not the photography part. The stillness part."
Victor sits on the edge of the desk, watching me with those steel-gray eyes. "What do you mean?"
"I'm not good at..." I gesture vaguely at the expanse of wilderness beyond the windows. "This. Silence. Stillness. Being alone with my thoughts." I laugh, but it sounds hollow even to my ears. "I talk too much because I hate the quiet. It makes me feel too much."
His expression softens almost imperceptibly. "The quiet can be loud."
"Exactly." I look at him, struck by how perfectly he's articulated it. "Most people don't get that."
"Before I came here," he says slowly, as if testing each word before releasing it, "my life was constant noise. The TV show, the producers, the expectations. People always wanting something." He rubs a hand across his beard. "When it all fell apart, the silence was... deafening. My thoughts were too loud."
I hold my breath, afraid to break the moment. This is the most he's voluntarily shared with me about his past.
"Is that why you came here? To escape the noise?"
"Partly." He looks out the window. "But also to find a different kind of quiet. One that didn't feel like drowning."
Without thinking, I reach out and place my hand on his chest, over his heart. It's a spontaneous gesture, meant to ground, toconnect. I feel his sharp intake of breath, the steady thump of his heartbeat under my palm.
"But it's quiet now," I say softly.
He looks down at my hand, then up at my face. The moment stretches, elastic and charged. I should pull away. I don't.
"Sometimes," he murmurs.
I don't know who moves first. Maybe we both do. One glance held too long. A breath suspended. A subtle shift of weight. And then his lips are on mine, tentative at first, like we're testing a theory neither of us is sure about. But the theory proves itself immediately, gloriously right.
The kiss deepens, and suddenly there's nothing tentative about it. His hand slides into my hair, cradling the back of my head. Mine finds his jaw, fingers scratching lightly through his beard. He tastes like mountain air and coffee, and he kisses like a man who's been starving—controlled but desperate, restrained but hungry.
