Burning for the Mountain Man (Mountain Man Mail Order Bride #12)

Chapter 1

CAMILLE

The permission slip for Simon’s field trip to the Montana Natural History Center is due today.

It's been sitting on my kitchen counter for eleven days, slowly migrating beneath a pile of junk mail, a calendar I haven’t hung yet (it’s April), and a coupon for forty cents off Greek yogurt that expired in October.

I found it this morning while excavating the counter in search of my sanity…or at least a pen that works.

I sign it with a purple marker because that's what's available, and Mrs. Porter can deal with it. If she wants blue or black ink, she can come to my house and find a functioning pen herself.

I'd love to watch her try.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I take it out and glance at the screen. It’s a text from Javi.

Hey, any chance we can swap weekends? Something came up with work.

Something came up with work is Javi-speak for anything from an actual emergency to a spontaneous camping trip with his buddies that he doesn't want to miss.

My ex-husband has a gift for being vague. It's impressive.

Which weekend are we talking about?

I pour my third cup of coffee into my "Held Together by Coffee and Spite" mug, which is less a cute kitchen accessory and more a mission statement. Two out of two ingredients accounted for this morning. We're on track.

Heavy footsteps descend the stairs—the signature stomp of a twelve-year-old boy who wants the whole house to know he's awake and not happy about it.

Simon rounds the corner into the kitchen looking like he personally lost a fight with his hair brush.

His shirt is inside out. His shoes are untied (he says it’s how kids wear them).

And he drops his backpack on the floor as if it weighs forty pounds and he’d rather launch it off the roof than carry it.

"Good morning, sunshine," I say. I am nothing if not optimistic in the face of pre-teen hostility.

He grunts.

"Hey, remember your science project is due Friday. Did you finish the—"

"Oh my god, Mom. You're so annoying." He rolls his eyes as if I’m talking utter nonsense, and not a poster about the water cycle.

He grabs a granola bar from the pantry, shoves it in his pocket, and yanks his backpack off the floor with the energy of someone who's been victimized by the concept of mornings.

I keep my voice light. "Just checking. You've got plenty of time."

"I know." He mutters something under his breath as he heads for the door.

"I wish I could just live at Dad's."

The words jab right between my ribs, in that soft spot I didn't know I'd left unguarded.

I take a breath, pretend I didn’t hear it, and pick up my coffee.

"Let's go," I say. "You're going to be late."

The drive to school is silent. Simon stares out the window like he's in a music video about his tragic life, and I’m gripping the steering wheel, telling myself it's just a phase. He's twelve. His brain is a construction zone. He doesn't mean it.

He gets out of the car without saying goodbye and doesn't look back.

I sit in the drop-off lane and watch him disappear through the front doors. I let myself feel it just for a second...the ache of loving someone so much it makes your teeth hurt, and knowing that right now, loving you back is the last thing on his list.

Then I shake it off and power through.

My third graders are pure anarchy today, which is actually my favorite version of them. It keeps my energy up.

We're doing a unit on habitats, and Olivia Duran has decided that she is, in fact, a desert tortoise and will only communicate in what she imagines are tortoise sounds.

Meanwhile, River Pham has glued his worksheet to the desk—not by accident, he assures me, but because "it wanted to stay there, Ms. Reyes.

" And little Leah Jackson is standing on her chair delivering an impassioned speech about why polar bears deserve their own country.

I love this part of my life. Right here, in this beautiful disaster of a classroom with alphabet letters peeling off the wall and the faint smell of Elmer's glue and someone's forgotten banana. These twenty-two tiny humans and their wacky little brains are my sweet spot.

"Listen, buddy," I tell River, crouching beside his desk. "The worksheet might want to stay, but it's got a date with my grading pile tonight. Let's see if we can unstick it without unsticking the desk, yeah?"

He grins at me, gap-toothed and shameless. "You're funny, Ms. Reyes."

"I know, kid. It's a gift and a curse."

The final bell rings at 3:00 and somehow I survive.

I'm erasing the whiteboard and picking glue sticks off the floor when Beth appears in my doorway.

"You look like you've been through a war," she says.

"I have. River declared a glue insurgency. Casualties were minimal, but the desk may never recover."

Beth laughs and drops into one of the miniature student chairs, her knees practically at her ears. She looks ridiculous and doesn't care. This is why I love her.

"So, update," she says, eyes bright. "I'm helping Fawn with engagement party planning, and Cam, I need you to understand—this woman has a vision board. For the appetizers."

"A vision board for appetizers?"

“Yep. And there are fabric swatches for the napkins."

I snort. "Jasper proposed and she's already got a mood board? That man has no idea what he's signed up for."

"He does, actually. He just looks at her like she’s an angel descended from Heaven and says 'whatever you want, sweetheart.' It's kinda disgusting. I love it."

"Firefighters and commitment." I shake my head, grinning. "Who knew they’d barrel straight into marriage as easily as they do burning buildings."

I give Beth a look. The one that says speaking of which without actually saying it. I know Aiden’s going to propose to her soon. The man is obsessed with her and she's just as smitten with him.

She clears her throat. "Oh, hey,” she starts, and I can tell she’s officially changing the subject. “We're doing a thing at our apartment this Saturday. Super casual. Aiden's grilling. You should come."

Normally I'd say yes without thinking. Aiden and the other firefighters I’ve met are a hoot, and Aiden is a great cook.

But this morning's hit is still sitting in my chest, and the thought of being around all those happy couples—Beth and Aiden, Perry and Raina, Jasper and Fawn, and even the Captain and Sloane—sounds… borderline tortuous.

"Ah, I can't. Simon's home this weekend." It's not technically a lie. He might be, depending on whatever Javi's "something came up with work" turns out to be.

Beth tilts her head. She just nods and says, "Next time, then."

After school Simon goes to his friend Niles’s house. His mom texted she’ll bring him home later.

The house is so quiet. I can hear the refrigerator humming, which is a sound that should be neutral, but tonight feels like loneliness with a motor.

I make my boxed mac and cheese, the kind with the powdered cheese packet that my mother would weep over if she knew. I'd apologize, but it's delicious and it takes eight minutes and I don't have the energy to pretend I'm someone who roasts vegetables mid-week.

I even eat standing at the counter because sitting at the table alone feels pointless. Then I grade papers for two hours, talking to myself the entire time ("Connor, buddy, a volcano is not a type of weather"), and eventually run a bath.

This is my one indulgence—the bathtub, a glass of wine, and whatever romance novel I'm currently devouring. Tonight, it's a second-chance romance with a brooding rancher who says things like "I never stopped thinking about you, darlin'" with a smoldering expression.

Normally, this is exactly what I need. Fictional men are reliable, the happy endings are guaranteed, and for a couple of hours I can live in a world where someone always says the right thing at the right time.

But tonight the words aren't sticking. I read the same page four times and I still couldn't tell you what the rancher said. Something about fences. Or feelings. Maybe both.

I set the book on the edge of the tub.

It's been years since anyone looked at me the way the men in these books look at the heroines. So long since anyone made me feel like more than the sum of my responsibilities—permission slips and lesson plans and bedtime negotiations with a kid who'd rather live at his dad's.

I'm not feeling sorry for myself. That's not what this is. I don't have time for that. But I can't ignore the gap anymore. The place where desire used to dwell. The place where a man's hands on my body and his voice in my ear used to make me feel alive.

I miss being flirted with. I miss butterflies in my belly. I miss feeling sexy, which is a word that feels almost foreign in my mouth now, like a language I used to speak, but haven't practiced in so long the syllables feel wrong.

Soon, the water goes lukewarm, and I pull the drain.

Later, I'm in bed scrolling my phone in the dark, something I’m always telling Simon not to do. But he's at Javi's, so there's no one here to catch me being a hypocrite. Small mercies.

I'm deep in the algorithm—a recipe video I'll never make, a dog reuniting with its soldier owner that makes my eyes sting, a reel about organizing your pantry that feels aspirational at best—when an ad pops up.

Mountain Mates: Forever.

The tagline: Real connections. No games. Matched based on who you are, not how you look.

I almost scroll past. But then my finger stops, like some rogue part of my brain grabbed the brakes.

Hmm…not even photos.

I click on it, just out of curiosity.

The site is clean and simple, not sleazy. There is in fact an anonymous tier where you're matched on personality alone. You talk first. You connect first. And then, if you both want to, you meet. They run retreats for it and everything.

My first instinct is to laugh at myself.

A dating site? Really, Cam? I'm a thirty-two-year-old single mom who eats questionable meals when she’s alone, uses coffee mugs to passive aggressively explain her personality, and hasn't shaved her legs since—actually, let's not go there.

The point is, I'm not exactly the target demo for a dating site.

Am I?

The anonymous part is intriguing.

No one can see my eye bags. No one knows I'm the woman who falls asleep on the couch at 9 p.m. with a stack of ungraded worksheets on my chest. No one has to know about the divorce, or my kid who's mad at the world, or that the most exciting thing that happened to me this week was finding a pen that worked.

Unless I choose to reveal those details.

Interesting.

Then I think about Beth. About the way Aiden looks at her…as if she's his everything. And how she looks at him in the exact same way. I love that for them. I do. But sitting in the glow of my phone in my empty bed, I can admit, just to myself, that I’m jealous of that.

I mean, I’m not looking for a husband or a stepdad for Simon—the kid can barely tolerate me right now.

I just want someone to talk to. Someone who makes me laugh and who reminds me that underneath the mom and elementary school teacher duties and the "I've got it all together" armor, there's still a woman in here.

A woman who used to be fun. Who used to be desired.

My thumb hovers over the sign-up button.

I think about every reason not to.

I'm too busy. I'm too tired. I don't have time.

What if it's weird? What if I've forgotten how to flirt and I embarrass myself?

Then I think about the book I couldn't focus on. About how the fictional happy endings used to be enough and tonight…they weren't.

I press the button and it directs me to sign-up page.

Username: Cursive&Caffeine.

Because cursive is what I teach every Tuesday and Thursday, and I couldn’t do any of it without the elixir of life. It fits.

I fill out the profile, squinting at the screen.

Favorite way to spend a Friday night? Bathtub, book, wine.

What are you looking for? I start typing something safe and generic, then delete it. If I'm doing this, I'm doing it right.

Someone who makes me laugh. Someone who listens without trying to fix me. Someone who can handle that my life can be messy and exhausting, and still want to be part of it.

I answer a few more questions then hit submit and drop my phone on the mattress like it's hot.

My heart is pounding, which is silly. It's a dating profile, not a felony.

I’m not going to tell Beth. Not that I'm ashamed—okay, maybe a little, but mostly because I'm not ready to make this a whole thing yet. Beth will be excited. She’ll want to workshop my profile and analyze every message and probably run background checks on anyone who talks to me.

I love her for it, but right now, this one's just for me.

I plug in my phone and turn off the lamp.

Somewhere under the exhaustion and the doubt and the lingering sting of I wish I could just live at Dad's, there's a tiny spark of something that feels like hope.