Wrong Cabin, Right Mountain Man (Date Night In The Mountains #14)

Chapter 1

MARCELLA

The short ribs are browning perfectly, and I’m trying not to take it as a sign.

Valentine’s Day. Of all nights to be standing in a stranger’s kitchen, humming over a Dutch oven like some hopeful romantic cliché.

“You’re humming,” Coralyn says through my phone’s speaker, her voice tinny but unmistakably smug. “You only hum when you’re happy-nervous. This is good. This is progress.”

“I’m not humming.” I flip the meat with practiced ease, watching the caramelized crust form on the other side. The sizzle fills the small kitchen, and okay, maybe I was humming. A little. “I’m concentrating.”

“You’re making short ribs for a first date. On Valentine’s Day. That’s not concentrating, that’s manifesting.”

I can’t argue with that. My signature braised short ribs with red wine reduction isn’t exactly a casual Tuesday night meal.

It’s the dish I make when I want to impress, when I want someone to taste how much care I’m capable of giving.

The fact that I’m making it for a blind date with a man I’ve never met—on the most loaded, heart-shaped night of the calendar—probably says something about how desperate I am for this to go well.

Not desperate. Hopeful. There’s a difference.

“Tell me about him again,” I say, reaching for the bottle of cabernet I picked up in town. The wine glugs into the Dutch oven, releasing a cloud of aromatic steam that makes my shoulders drop half an inch. This, at least, I know how to do. This, I can control.

“Boyd Mitchell. Thirty-two. Finance something-or-other—don’t make that face, I know you’re making that face. He’s nice, Marce. A little shy, which is why he wanted somewhere private for the first meeting instead of a restaurant. Very outdoorsy. Loves hiking.”

“You said that already.” I stir the deglazing liquid, scraping up the fond from the bottom of the pan. “Twice.”

“Because it’s important! You need someone who’ll actually do things with you instead of just criticizing everything you enjoy.

” Coralyn’s voice softens, losing some of its manic matchmaker energy.

“You deserve someone who sees how amazing you are. Boyd’s going to take one look at you, taste your cooking, and fall completely in love. ”

The words hit somewhere raw, and I have to blink a few times before I trust my voice. “That’s a lot of pressure to put on short ribs. Especially on Valentine’s.”

“Your short ribs could end wars, babe. He doesn’t stand a chance.”

I laugh, and it comes out only slightly watery.

Six months since the divorce was finalized, and I’m still not used to having someone in my corner like this.

Stephen spent three years convincing me that my friends were too demanding, my cooking was a waste of time, my everything was too much.

Coralyn spent those same three years refusing to disappear, texting me stupid memes and showing up with wine whenever Stephen had a “work trip.”

She’s earned the right to set me up on questionable blind dates—especially on Valentine’s Day.

“Okay,” I say, adding beef stock to the pot. “Tell me about this cabin again. Tower Seven, right?”

“Tower Seven, up on Ridgeback Road. Super cozy, very romantic. Fireplace, mountain views, the whole thing. I told Boyd to meet you there at six.”

I glance at my phone’s screen. 4:47. Plenty of time to let the braise work its magic, get the root vegetables roasting, maybe even attempt the homemade bread I’ve been practicing.

The kitchen is well-stocked—better than I expected for a rental—and whoever owns this place clearly knows their way around a meal.

The spice rack alone is impressive, organized alphabetically with several varieties I don’t recognize.

“It’s really beautiful here,” I tell Coralyn, wandering toward the living area while the short ribs simmer. “Like, really beautiful. Whoever decorated has incredible taste.”

The furniture catches my eye again—it’s been catching my eye since I arrived.

A leather armchair sits beside the stone fireplace, worn soft in all the right places.

The coffee table looks handmade, its surface smooth and gleaming, the wood grain almost hypnotic in the afternoon light filtering through large windows.

Built-in bookshelves line one wall, filled with what looks like an actual collection rather than decorator staging.

Thrillers, survival guides, woodworking manuals.

A few worn paperbacks with cracked spines.

“Rustic chic,” Coralyn agrees. “Very mountain man aesthetic. I thought you’d appreciate it.”

I run my fingers along the arm of a wooden dining chair, marveling at the craftsmanship.

The joints are seamless, the curves organic, like the piece grew into this shape rather than being forced into it.

There’s a signature carved into the underside—I spotted it earlier when I was setting the table. Just initials. F.M.

“Someone made all this furniture by hand,” I say. “It’s gorgeous. Like, museum-quality gorgeous.”

“Fancy rental. Boyd knows people.”

Something about that doesn’t quite track—the coffee mug in the sink, the slight indentation in the leather armchair, the way the bookshelves have that particular organized chaos of someone who actually reads—but I push the thought aside.

Mountain rentals are different from city apartments.

People probably leave their personal touches behind.

I drift back to the kitchen, checking on my braise. The smell is intoxicating: wine, herbs, the deep umami of searing meat. This is what I do best. This is who I am when I’m not trying to be smaller, quieter, less.

“I’m nervous,” I admit, surprising myself. “What if he doesn’t... what if I’m too...”

“Don’t.” Coralyn’s voice goes sharp. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence, Marcella Campos. You are not too anything. You’re exactly the right amount of everything, and if Boyd can’t see that, he doesn’t deserve your short ribs.”

I laugh, but it’s shaky. “Stephen said—”

“Stephen is a soul-sucking narcissist who wouldn’t know a good thing if it braised itself in red wine and presented itself on a bed of roasted vegetables,” she says, her tone gaining steam.

“Stephen’s opinion is worth less than gas station sushi.

Stephen can take his criticisms and shove them directly up his—”

“Okay, okay.” I’m actually laughing now, the tension in my chest easing. “Message received.”

“Good. Now, I have to go—my boss is giving me the look that means I’ve been on the phone too long during my break. But text me updates. I want to know everything. And Marce?”

“Yeah?”

“This is going to go so right. I can feel it.”

The call ends, and the ranger station—cabin, I remind myself, rental cabin—settles into comfortable silence around me.

Just the crackle of the fire I started earlier, the gentle bubble of the braise, the wind picking up outside.

Through the window, I can see snow-dusted peaks catching the last of the afternoon sun, all pink and gold and impossible.

I take a breath. Hold it. Let it go.

I’m Marcella Campos. I’m a food blogger with fifty thousand followers and a gift for making people feel loved through what I cook. I’m plus-size and passionate and probably too loud in restaurants. I’m divorced and scarred and stubbornly, foolishly hopeful.

And I’m done making myself small.

The words feel like a declaration, even if I’m the only one here to witness it. This is me, trying. This is me refusing to let Stephen’s voice in my head win.

I tie my hair back into a messy bun—functional, not cute, but Boyd’s going to have to deal with the reality of a woman who actually cooks.

I survey my workspace. Root vegetables need peeling.

Bread dough should probably get started if I’m going to attempt it.

The table’s set with mismatched plates I found in the cupboard, a Valentine-themed candle I brought from home, cloth napkins that might be overkill but felt right.

It looks like someone’s home.

I lose myself in the rhythm of cooking, the way I always do. Peel, chop, toss with olive oil and herbs. Check the braise, adjust the seasoning, add another splash of wine. The kitchen fills with warmth and scent and the quiet satisfaction of making something good.

My blog followers would love this kitchen.

The lighting’s incredible, all natural and golden, perfect for photos.

I snap a few shots of the vegetables going into the oven, compose a caption in my head: Sometimes the wrong turn leads to the best discoveries.

New series coming soon: Mountain cooking adventures?

Too corny. I delete the draft and focus on my bread dough instead.

By five-thirty, the ranger station smells like heaven—or at least like the most romantic dinner I’ve ever prepared. The short ribs are fall-apart tender. The bread is rising beautifully. The root vegetables are caramelizing into sweet, earthy perfection.

I light the candle on the table and step back to admire my work.

This feels right. All of it—the cooking, the setting, the attempt at vulnerability. Even if Boyd turns out to be boring or incompatible or not what I’m looking for, I’m here. I’m trying. I’m refusing to let fear keep me from reaching for something good.

The wind howls outside, stronger now, and I notice the light has shifted from golden to gray. Snow flurries dance past the windows. A perfect night to be cozy inside with good food and maybe, possibly, someone worth sharing it with.

I smooth down my sweater—my favorite deep green one, the one that makes me feel pretty—and tuck a stray curl behind my ear.

“You’ve got this,” I tell myself. “You’re not too much. You’re exactly enough.”

The words feel foreign in my mouth, like a language I’m still learning. But I keep saying them, keep believing them, keep stirring my braising liquid and checking my bread and setting the scene for a new beginning.

I check the clock on the wall. 5:42. Still time before Boyd arrives. Still time to finish the bread, plate everything beautifully, maybe fix my hair into something more intentional than this messy bun.

But for now, I turn back to my braising liquid and let myself hum along to the music. Let myself enjoy this moment—the warmth of the kitchen, the smell of good food, the quiet hope blooming in my chest.

Maybe this will work, maybe not. But no matter how this date turns out, I know one thing: I’m enough.