Page 6 of Mountain Man's City Girl
Her sincerity surprises me. I expected a city photographer looking for dramatic shots, not someone who seems to genuinely care about the land.
"There's a ridge to the east," I find myself saying. "Overlooks three valleys. Sun hits it first."
Her smile is like sunrise itself. "That sounds perfect."
"It's a hard climb."
"I can handle it. I may look like a soft city girl, but I've hiked the Inca Trail and trekked across Iceland. I even survived a week in Death Valley with only a cranky guide and a camera with a cracked lens."
Something tells me she can. This isn't the girl I remember—this is a woman who's navigated her own wilderness.
"We leave at 4:30," I say. "Bring layers. Gets cold before dawn."
"Thank you, Victor." The way she says my name—soft, genuine—sends an unexpected warmth through me.
We clear the dishes together, moving in the small kitchen space with surprising ease. As she hands me the last bowl, our fingersbrush—warm skin against callused palm. The contact is brief, but electric. I don't pull away immediately, and neither does she.
For a heartbeat, we stand there, connected by more than touch. Then she smiles—a small, uncertain thing—and the moment passes.
Chapter 3 – Jade
My alarm chirps at 4:00 a.m., but I'm already awake. Been awake for twenty minutes, actually, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling of the guest cabin, listening to the perfect silence of the mountains. It's the kind of quiet that has texture—velvety and dense, pressing against my eardrums like I've gone underwater.
My camera bag is packed and waiting by the door. I check my equipment one last time—extra batteries, memory cards, lenses. The tools of my trade, as familiar to my hands as my own heartbeat.
When I step outside, the world is wrapped in predawn mist, everything softened at the edges. Stars still pierce the darkened sky, though the eastern horizon hints at the coming dawn—a barely-there lightening from black to deepest blue.
And there's Victor.
He stands at the edge of the clearing, his back to me, a dark silhouette against the silvery fog. He's perfectly still, like he's been carved from the mountain itself. Steam rises from a mug in his hand. He hasn't heard me yet.
Without thinking, I raise my camera. Frame him against the misty backdrop. Adjust focus. The shutter clicks, loud in the dawn stillness.
His head turns sharply. Even in the dim light, I can feel the weight of his stare.
"Morning, sunshine," I call out, not bothering to hide my grin.
"You always ambush people with that thing?" His voice is morning-rough, gravelly.
I cross the dewy grass toward him, camera still in hand. "Only the photogenic ones."
"Delete it."
"No can do. Journalistic integrity."
He makes a sound that might be a scoff. "Journalistic integrity would include asking permission."
"That's not how candids work." I stop beside him, close enough to smell coffee and something woodsy—pine soap, maybe. "Besides, the best shots happen when people don't know they're being watched. When they're just... existing."
He shifts his weight, uncomfortable with my proximity or my philosophy or both. "Sounds invasive."
"Or intimate," I counter, feeling oddly bold in the quiet dark. "Seeing someone as they really are, not the version they present to the world."
"Are you always this philosophical before sunrise?"
"Only on mountains. With grumpy guides." I smile to take the sting out. "I bet you wake up this early just to practice that brooding mountain man stance before anyone sees you."
His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close. "There's a thermos in the pack. Help yourself."
