Reclusive Mountain Man (Hot Mountain Nights #2)

1. Lucia

Chapter one

Lucia

Fifty dollars. That’s what I was promised for climbing this death trap of a mountain.

All I had to do was camp for one single night and survive. Easy, right? Tourists are always flooding the mountain; I assumed anyone could do it.

Well, jokes on me. The sad thing is, no one is around to laugh.

How much does it cost to get rescued from a mountain because of a sprained ankle? More than fifty dollars, probably.

I should have known this bet was stupid to follow through with from the get-go.

Who am I kidding? It was never about the money. It was because Jessie and Gwen insisted I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t leave the comfort of my home and live a little beyond my normal routine. So what if I never mix things up and try to make my life more exciting?

My pride and stubbornness are what have pushed me as far as I’ve made it. Too far to go back now.

The sky splits open above me with a frightening boom that vibrates the very bones in my body. Thunder rolls across the entire half of the mountain, and for a second, I swear even the ground trembles beneath the storm’s wrath.

Even Mother Nature is telling me to go home, as if that’s still an option.

Unless I want to risk going down the world's messiest slip and slide, I'm stuck up here.

"Ouch." My clothes are glued to my skin, heavy and cold. I try to shift just enough to stretch my legs. "Ouch."

The tarp I'd carefully put up? Gone. Snatched by a wind that had no business being that strong. One second it was there, the next it transformed into a performer—cartwheeled into the dark as if I'd never owned it.

All those YouTube knot-tying videos? A waste.

Now the rain isn't just pouring. It's aggressive, coming down like small needles. Like the sky has a personal grudge against me and my already-sprained ankle. Every drop blurs the trees into smudges, turning what was already hard to see into a complete guess.

I sure hope there aren’t any hungry bears or wolves out. Otherwise, I’m going to turn into a late snack.

There aren't any humans, either, from my poor attempt of calling out for help.

So here I am, planted on a rock, pretending a few thin pine branches are shelter. Soaking up failure like it's rainwater. I've officially proved that I cannot survive out here. Not even for a single night. Talk about pitiful.

Am I really going to die because of some money and my damaged pride? At this rate, it's hard to tell.

Sitting here sniffling about my problems isn't getting me anywhere.

Cradling the stick I'd found thirty minutes ago, I pull myself upward. It's no crutch, but it's thick enough to support most of my weight.

Slowly and ever so carefully, I pick up the crumbling pieces of my miserable self and keep moving.

Going down risks slipping again—a mistake I won't make twice. So instead, I keep walking up. Eventually, I'll have to stumble upon someone with a phone. A traveling vehicle, a cabin, anyone. They'll be my saving grace.

I just can't give up. No matter how much it hurts. No matter how much I want to cry. I have to keep moving.

My rescue comes far sooner than I expect.

Deep in the trees, past the fat, frantic drops of rain, I see it.

A low glow. Like a lighthouse beacon calling out to a shipwreck—except the shipwreck is me, and the sea is this stupid mountain.

I drag myself through the thick of the forest, stumbling and groaning, until finally, my feet hit wooden steps.

I abandon my stick and my pride.

Grunting, I make my way to the door. The windows glow orange, promising life on the other side. Warmth. A fire to dry my clothes. A future where I'm not just a human-shaped puddle.

I bang my fist on the door to get no answer.

Fuck. Please tell me someone is here.

"Hello?" I call out, as if yelling will make a difference. The silence that answers has me thumping my forehead against the wood. I pinch my eyes shut and consider waiting it out. If the owner is somewhere else, they'll have to come back eventually.

Or—what if this is one of those places for hikers to crash at? Maybe the lights are left on to help guide people like me?

I'm desperate enough to believe something so silly. That's what has me reaching for the handle, hoping it'll be unlocked.

A gasp leaves my lips when the door pops open.

Am I actually onto something here?

I push the door open, too desperate to seek protection, so I don't weigh my decision as I should. The smell of cedar and woodsmoke hits me like a hug I didn't know I needed. It’s so pleasant; more tears are brought to the corners of my eyes. These are out of pure relief.

This is going to be wrong on so many levels, but I can’t help it. I’ll give whoever whatever they want if it means I can survive through the night out of the storm.

Stumbling inside, the first thing I do is kick off my shoes. They're muddied and soaked all the way through, and compared to the other two pairs of thick, massive boots lined neatly, they stick out like a sore thumb. Sliding my backpack off, it falls with a heavy thump.

Clutching my soaked socks in my grip to avoid leaving too much of a wet trail, I limp deeper into the cabin, my eyes darting to every corner.

The cabin is dead silent, save for the crackle of the hearth.

By the time the fireplace snags my attention, the flames are barely flickering, reduced to a bed of glowing, angry red coals.

I hesitate, then grab a heavy log, throwing it in and watching the flames lick greedily up the wood. The heat bakes against my shins, but my clothes are still glued to my skin, heavy and ice-cold.

I look around once more, my eyes snagging on the few different doorways, then down at my dripping outfit.

I need to get cleaned up. And I need to get out of these clothes right now, even if it means risking a run-in with a giant who might not appreciate finding a soaking-wet stranger invading his sanctuary.

Testing my weight on my ankle, I hiss through my teeth and hobble toward the nearest hallway, aiming for what I pray is a bathroom.

The hallway is narrow and dark, soon filled with light after the switch is flipped. I'm actively trying not to leave a puddle, but my eyes are drawn to a small cluster of dark wooden frames hanging on the timber wall.

I freeze when I notice all four of them contain the same man.

Oh. Oh, no.

One sunlit photograph is a man who looks like he was sculpted out of the very mountain I’m currently dying on. He’s smiling at the lens, his hand occupied with a water bottle.

He’s massive. Even in a still frame, his broad shoulders and thick chest dominate the space, making his hiking gear look far too small. He’s laughing at something off-camera, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass and covered in a layer of stubble.

I swallow thickly as I look at another one. Below, the same man, a little older, stands with a woman, his near-twin. The same thick, messy black hair covers both of their heads. He’s got her picked up beneath one arm.

My throat goes completely dry.

I was expecting a hermit, not a model I’d find on the cover of a nature magazine. Oh, I think I’ve made a mistake.

Suddenly, my heart is doing a frantic, panicked stutter in my chest. I glance down at myself. I’m a freaking mess through and through.

If he walks through that door right now, I won't just look like a criminal—I'll look like a bridge troll who crawled out of the swamp to haunt him.

As pitiful as I look, it may help me in the long run; I should clean up a little before he appears.

By the time that rolls around, maybe I'll have my story straight.

Otherwise, I'm going to sound like a stuttering fool.

The last thing I'll need is to add another reason to embarrass myself in front of a man way out of my league.