Chapter 3
CAMILLE
It's been two weeks since I signed up for Mountain Mates, and I have a confession to make.
I am crushing hard over a stranger on the internet.
The butterflies are back and I’m a giddy mess.
Wild@Heart has become the best part of my day. And yes, the bar is admittedly low, considering my day includes a crazed class of third graders and my kid who communicates primarily in grunts, huffs, and eye rolls. But still.
It started slowly…cautious messages back and forth, the way you'd test a bridge before crossing—a little weight here, a little there, ready to pull back if anything started to creak.
He was funny from the jump, but not in that try-hard way where you can feel the guy might be rehearsing his material.
More like the humor just falls out of him, and before I know it I'm laughing at my phone at 10 p.m. while a stack of ungraded worksheets judges me from the coffee table.
He asks thoughtful questions. What's the hardest part of your week? What's something you're proud of that nobody notices? If you could take one whole day just for yourself, what would you do with it?
And he listens. That's the part that makes me swoon.
I'll vent about Simon's attitude (being careful not to use my son’s name, of course) or a parent conference that made me want to crawl under my desk, and he doesn't try to offer solutions or give me advice unless I ask for it first.
He’ll say something to the effect of that sounds exhausting and you didn't deserve it, then crack a joke so perfectly timed it releases the pressure valve that was about to blow.
Last week I told him about a mother who came in for a conference and spent fifteen minutes telling me her son's behavioral issues were because my classroom "lacked structure.
" Ma'am, I have a color-coded behavior chart, a noise-level thermometer, and a chill-out corner with a stuffed sloth named Garth.
There is structure. Your kid licked his markers just for the thrill of it.
Wildfire's response was: Please tell me Garth has tenure. That sloth is doing more emotional labor than most adults I know.
I laughed so hard I snorted. Alone in my bed…developing feelings for a faceless stranger whose screen name sounds like a candle from Bath & Body Works.
Then right after the joke, he added: Seriously though, you show up every single day for other people's kids, and then you go home and show up for your own. That's something to be proud of. I hope someone reminds you of that.
I stared at that message until my screen went dark.
And somewhere along the way, between the late-night laughing and the honest conversations and the feeling of being seen for the first time in years, the flirting started.
Not all at once. It crept in from the side door. A compliment tucked inside a joke. A goodnight, gorgeous that made me read it way more times than I should’ve. He called me trouble one night after I teased him about something, and it ignited in my chest like a lit match.
None of it was explicit. That's the thing. He never crossed a line or said anything that would make me blush if someone read it over my shoulder. But there was an edge underneath everything—this low, steady hum of you turn me on woven into the most innocent exchanges.
He'd describe a meal he was cooking and somehow the way he described the heat of the pan and the patience of a slow simmer made my skin prickle. I'd tell him about my day and he'd say I wish I could've been there and the sweetness of it would knock the air out of me.
It was as if I was standing too close to a fire on a cold night. You know you should step back, but the warmth feels so good you stay, and the heat keeps building so gradually that by the time you realize you're burning, you don't want it to stop.
I'd catch myself rereading his messages during the day…at my desk during lunch, in the pickup line at Simon's school, in the grocery store aisle.
The anticipation alone is intoxicating. That fizzy, breathless feeling of knowing a message is coming, knowing it will make me smile or make my stomach flip or make me press my phone to my chest and close my eyes.
I'd forgotten what desire felt like when it's still building.
When it's all tension and no release and every word is a tease whether it means to be or not.
It reminds me of the first chapters of a really good romance novel—before anything happens, when it's all loaded glances and almost-touches and the promise of more.
Except this isn’t fiction. This is real life…and the promise of more is starting to keep me up at night.
Saturday morning, Beth convinces me to go to the farmers market downtown.
"Fresh air, local crafts, and those little Swedish cinnamon buns you love from Falk’s Fikabrod," she says, as if she's assembling a bribery package. It works, because I'm easy and those kanelbullar are incredible.
The market is crowded in that pleasant, small-town way, with everyone moving slowly, examining tomatoes as if they're choosing engagement rings, cute dogs in bandanas, and children weaving between people as they laugh.
Beth is on a mission for some specific goat cheese that Aiden wants for a recipe, and I'm trailing behind her with a coffee, content to be outside and not thinking about kids and multiplication tables. I let Simon stay home, since I’d only be gone for a couple hours and he wanted nothing to do with me anyway.
"Aiden's been experimenting with flatbreads," Beth explains, inspecting a log of chèvre like it's a diamond under a loupe. "He saw a video. There's rosemary involved. Hell, I was in after the word 'caramelized.'"
"You're dating a man who caramelizes things on purpose. I hope you know how lucky you are. The most ambitious thing in my kitchen is a microwave timer."
She laughs, and we drift past a stand selling homemade bug repellent that smells of pine and lavender.
I'm reaching for a kanelbullar at the bakery stall when Beth freezes mid-stride and grabs my arm.
"Oh!" Her eyes go wide. "There's Aiden! And—yes! Chevy’s with him." She's practically vibrating. "Cam, this might finally be it."
I open my mouth to respond, but my phone rings. I glance at the screen.
I hold up a finger to Beth. "Sorry, I have to take this. It's Javi."
"Are you kidding me right now," she mutters, but waves me off.
I step away from the crowd and answer.
Javi wants to swap again next weekend due to a work training in Billings. We go back and forth on logistics for Simon. The call takes seven minutes, which in co-parenting time is practically a summit negotiation.
By the time I hang up and find Beth again, she's standing alone with the goat cheese, looking defeated.
"They left," she says. "They got called into the station. I swear the universe is conspiring against this introduction."
"Beth, I'm sorry—"
"Don't apologize. It's fine. It's cosmically hilarious at this point." She shakes her head, but she's smiling. "One day, Camille. One day I will get you two in the same room, even if I have to orchestrate a kidnapping."
"That's illegal."
"I know people."
“You do not.”
She huffs. “Fine. Aiden knows people.”
I laugh, but honestly, I'm barely registering the missed introduction since my phone just buzzed in my pocket and I already know who it is. I sneak a glance while Beth's paying for her cheese.
Wild@Heart: Good morning, trouble. How's your Saturday going?
The grin that spreads across my face is enormous and thank god Beth's back is turned, because she’d know something was up if she saw me.
I tuck the phone away and follow Beth back to the bakery stand, feeling lighter than I have all week.
But later that night, the exhaustion finally hits me hard.
Even with the farmers market and Beth's company, the weight of the week is still sitting on me. Simon barely spoke to me at dinner (he was not happy about his dad switching weekends again) and there’s a pile of grading that seemed to reproduce when I wasn't looking.
By the time I crawl into bed, I’m still in my clothes from the day—jeans, a flowy top that smells like goat cheese and lavender, and flats I keep thinking about chucking, but then realize I don’t have replacements.
I just don't have the energy to change and I fall onto the mattress starfish-style and pick up my phone.
Cursive&Caffeine: I'm so tired I might actually be dead. If I stop responding, send help. Or wine. Preferably wine.
Wild@Heart: Bad day?
Cursive&Caffeine: Bad week. I'm lying in bed fully dressed including my shoes because taking them off is too much effort. That's where I'm at.
Wild@Heart: You're still wearing your shoes?
Cursive&Caffeine: Yeah, I know. No judging.
Wild@Heart: I'm not judging. I'm thinking about how, if I were there, the first thing I'd do is take them off for you.
Something about the intimacy of that makes my belly flutter.
It’s different from the weeks of slow-burn flirting…the playful compliments, the warmth simmering underneath his words.
This feels like a door opening.
And I want to welcome him in.
Cursive&Caffeine: That would be lovely.
Wild@Heart: I'd sit on the edge of the bed and lift your foot into my lap. Slip one shoe off, then the other. Slowly. Then I'd rub those poor feet from your heels to your toes, working out every bit of soreness from the day.
I stare at the screen. My toes actually curl inside my flats, as if my body is responding to his touch.
Cursive&Caffeine: Okay you can't just casually describe a foot rub and expect me to function.
Wild@Heart: Who said anything about casual?
Wild@Heart: I'd take my time. You sound like someone who doesn't get taken care of often enough. And that's something I can fix.
My breath goes shallow. I kick my shoes off, making room for the fantasy.
Wild@Heart: After your feet, I'd move up…with your permission, of course.
My fingers tighten around my phone. How sad, that consent alone is such a turn on…
Cursive&Caffeine: Please do continue.
Wild@Heart: You wearing a top with buttons?