Page 5 of Consumed By The Forbidden Mountain Man

Tony:

Huh

Don't do anything I wouldn't do

Me:

That leaves a LOT of room Tony

Tony:

I hate you. Love you. Don't burn his cabin down

The phone goes dark. I toss it on the bed next to the floral pillowcase from my first apartment. The one thing I kept through four moves, a soul-crushing job, and a lease I didn't renew because renewing it meant admitting the life I'd built in Sacramento was the one I actually wanted.

It wasn't. None of it was.

Six years at Hartwick Marketing taught me how to write ad copy for brands I didn't care about, smile through meetings where men with fewer qualifications got the promotions I'd earned, and have a panic attack in a bathroom stall so quietly that nobody in the next stall could hear it. The last one happened on a Tuesday. I quit on a Wednesday. My boss said, "You'll regret this." My best friend said, "About time." My mother said, "What about your 401k?"

And here I am. Twenty-six, unemployed, no apartment, no plan, living in my brother's spare cabin in a mountain town of maybe two thousand people. With a notebook full of business ideas I'm too chickenshit to start.

Living the dream.

I finish unpacking in twenty minutes because there isn't much to unpack. Hang up what fits, fold what doesn't. My makeup bag goes in the bathroom, which is clean but tiny. The shower has a rust stain I'll learn to love.

At six-thirty, I shower, put on clean jeans and a fitted black sweater, and spend an embarrassing amount of time on my hair for a dinner I'm telling myself means nothing. It's just steaks. Neighborly. Tony's friend being polite.

Except Tony said Reid doesn't cook for people.

I grab the bottle of red I brought from Sacramento, because a girl shows up with wine whether a grumpy mountain man wants her to or not.

His porch smells like charcoal. He's standing at a grill that's been used so often the paint on the lid is gone, wearing a clean henley with the sleeves pushed to his elbows, jeans, boots. No cap. Without it, his hair is messy, thick, dark with that silver I noticed earlier.

He looks up when my boots hit the first step.

"You brought wine."

"I told you I was bringing wine." I set the bottle on the porch railing. "You can open it or stare at it disapprovingly. Both work for me."

The corner of his mouth moves. Just barely. Then he turns back to the grill.

"Steaks'll be ready in ten. There's salad inside."

"You made a salad?"

"Tony stocked my fridge too. I'm not a monster."

I laugh and go inside to get the salad. His cabin is bigger than mine. Same bones, same wood and stone, but this one has a living room with a leather couch, a kitchen with actual counter space, and a hallway that leads to two bedrooms. It's clean. Sparse. No art on the walls, no throw pillows, no sign that anyone's done anything to make this space feel like home.

A man living here without putting down roots. Even temporarily.

The salad is in a wooden bowl on the counter next to two plates. Two forks. Two knives. He set the table for both of us before I got here.

Something about that makes my throat tighten. He didn't have to do any of this. Could've pointed me to my cabin and gone about his evening. But he's out there grilling steaks on a porch with two place settings.

I carry the bowl outside.

We eat at the small table on his porch while the sun drops behind the ridge. The steaks are perfect. Medium rare, seasoned with just salt and pepper. I tell him so.