Chapter One #2
I filmed everything. Quick clips for Stories, longer shots for potential posts, candid moments of small-town charm. A woman with gray hair and a colorful scarf waved at my camera. Two kids threw snowballs near the gazebo, their laughter carrying on the cold air.
The whole time, I smiled at strangers. Complimented someone's coat. Asked about favorite holiday traditions. My mouth said the right things, but I knew I was just going through the motions.
A few people recognized me—a teenage girl asked for a photo, and I smiled brightly even though I could see the pity in her eyes.
Note to self: humiliation follows you everywhere, even to towns with populations under 4,000.
By evening, I was back at the rental with takeout from Skyline Bar & Grill—gooey mac-n-cheese and fries, comfort food that tasted like giving up—reviewing footage on my laptop.
It was technically fine. Good lighting, decent composition, usable clips.
But nothing special. Nothing that would make it go viral.
I checked my analytics.
Down another hundred.
I closed the laptop and crawled into bed without taking off my makeup. Tomorrow would be better.
Tomorrow had to be better.
DECEMBER 9TH DAWNED cold and bright.
I woke at eight with a desperate, clawing need to create something—anything—that would turn things around.
Today is the day.
I showered, did my makeup with extra care—full coverage foundation, dramatic lashes, pink frosty lips. Then I changed into my cutest winter outfit: oversized cream sweater, pink leggings, fuzzy ankle boots. Professional camera, phone, and accessories in hand.
Then I got in my car and started driving.
My plan: find "authentic mountain content." Forests and snow and maybe wildlife. Something raw and natural and different from the polished town square footage.
I drove out of town, following winding roads up into the mountains. My GPS was useless—the signal kept cutting out—but I figured I could explore and find my way back.
The views were incredible. Snow-heavy evergreens, mountains rising in the distance, everything blanketed in that quiet gray light of winter. I stopped several times to film—landscape shots, myself standing in the snow with my arms spread wide, pale light gently filtering through the canopy.
Beautiful.
Still not enough.
Fifteen minutes later, I realized I was lost. Completely, hopelessly lost. A narrow private road surrounded by forest, with no idea which direction town was.
Note to self: spontaneous content gathering works better when you actually know how to get home.
Okay. Don't panic. You'll just turn around and—
That's when I heard it.
The sharp, rhythmic crack of an axe splitting wood.
I slowed the car, following the sound around a bend.
Through the evergreens, I saw a driveway leading to a large mountain lodge set back in the woodland.
The property was stunning—fifty acres at least, from what I could see.
Dense forest surrounded the main house, untouched and pristine.
Smoke curled lazily from a stone chimney.
There was a detached workshop building with large windows, and beyond that, what looked like a converted barn painted deep red.
And in front of the workshop, splitting wood with powerful, rhythmic strokes, was a man.
A shirtless man.
In the middle of December.
In Montana.
My brain short-circuited.
He was tall—easily six-two or six-three—with the kind of build that came from actual work, not a gym. Broad shoulders, trim waist, muscular arms. A solid chest dusted with gray hair that tapered down his stomach in a way that made my mouth go dry.
His hair was striking—silver-gray and distinguished rather than aging, cut short on the sides with slightly more length on top. Even from this distance, genuine silver. Not salt-and-pepper. The kind of color that caught the light even on an overcast day.
He went gray early. Maybe in his thirties. And he owns it.
He swung the tool with an easy competence that made my stomach flip. No wasted motion, no hesitation. Just smooth strokes that sent wood splitting cleanly down the middle. The rhythm was hypnotic—lift, swing, split, toss aside, set up the next log, repeat.
He wasn't gym-perfect. He was real-man strong. The kind that came from living a life that required actual physical capability.
Oh my god.
Early forties, maybe, though it was hard to tell from this distance. The confidence in his movements spoke of maturity and experience. A man who knew exactly who he was and didn't apologize for it. A man, not a boy.
Nothing like Drew.
Drew was twenty-eight and spent an hour a day on his hair. This man looked like he'd rolled out of bed, surveyed the woodpile, and set to work.
My hands had moved to my phone on autopilot.
This is it. This is what I need.
I pulled over about thirty feet away, tucking my car behind a thicket of evergreens. He hadn't looked up, hadn't noticed me.
"Holy shit," I breathed, thumb already hitting record.
The diffused winter lighting was ideal, highlighting every muscle, every movement.
The mountains rose behind him like something out of a postcard.
Snow sparkled on the ground, pristine except where he'd walked.
His breath came out in white puffs, but he didn't seem to notice the temperature. Steam rose off his shoulders and back.
Hot Mountain Daddy.
The phrase popped into my head, and I almost laughed out loud.
That's exactly what he was.
I zoomed in slightly, keeping the framing good. His face was partially turned away, but I could see enough—strong jaw shadowed with stubble, a straight nose, the concentrated expression of someone absorbed in their task.
My breath fogged the windshield despite the heater running full blast, my fingers numb where they gripped my phone.
Focus. You're filming. That's all this is.
Except my hands were trembling, and it wasn't just from the cold.
I'd been attracted to people before. Obviously. I'd been with Drew for three years. But this was different. This was visceral. Physical. The kind of attraction that made you forget how to breathe properly. The kind that made you understand what "weak in the knees" actually meant.
Maybe it was because he was older. Mature.
Or maybe it was the mountain man competence—the ease with which he handled that heavy tool, the self-sufficiency radiating from every movement.
Or maybe it was just that he was objectively the most attractive man I'd ever seen, and my body was responding accordingly.
You're allowed to be attracted to people. Even shirtless strangers you're filming without permission.
Oh god. Without permission.
I should ask permission. I should stop and go introduce myself and ask if I can use this for my feed.
But even as I thought it, I knew I wouldn't. Couldn't. Because what if he said no? What if he was annoyed at being interrupted? What if he was married, or mean, or just not interested in being on social media?
What if this opportunity disappeared before I could capture it?
My thumb was already recording. Had been for almost a minute now. I couldn't stop.
He paused, setting down the axe. I held my breath, afraid he'd spotted me. But he just stretched—arms over his head, back arching slightly—and the movement did truly devastating things to my heartrate. Every muscle from his shoulders to his abs was on full display.
Jesus.
I bit my lip, trying to stay quiet, trying to keep my phone steady.
I kept recording as he returned to splitting wood. The way his shoulders moved. The flex of his arms. His absorption in the task. The pile growing steadily beside him, evidence of work already done.
Watching him felt almost meditative. Like he'd found peace in this repetitive motion, in each clean split.
What's his story? Why is a man who looks like THAT out here in the mountains chopping wood shirtless in December?
Then he straightened again, and this time he did look around. Not at me—I was far enough away and hidden—but at the forest, the mountains, his property. Satisfaction in that look. Pride of ownership. This was his land, his life, his sanctuary.
And I was invading it with my camera.
Guilt crashed over me, sharp and acidic.
This is wrong. You know this is wrong. He's a real person, not paid content. He has a right to privacy. You're trespassing. You're filming without consent. This is exactly the kind of thing you'd hate if someone did it to you.
But I was also desperate. Drowning. Running out of options and time and money and hope.
And this footage—this gorgeous, viral-ready footage—could save me.
Just this once. Just this one video. Then you'll delete it if he ever finds out. But he probably won't find out. And even if he does, you can apologize, take it down, make it right.
Even as I thought it, I knew it was bullshit.
I recorded for another thirty seconds, then decided I had enough. More than enough. I had at least three minutes of footage, multiple angles, different shots—wide angles showing the property and mountains, close-ups of his movements, that devastating stretch.
This was perfect.
I ducked down slightly in my seat—not that he'd been looking my direction—and carefully, quietly backed my car down the private road until I could turn around.
Adrenaline. Excitement. Guilt I was trying desperately to ignore.
And underneath it all, a flutter low in my stomach from having seen the hottest man I'd ever encountered in my entire twenty-five years of life.
Focus. This is about your career. This is about saving everything you've built. That's all.
But I couldn't quite stop thinking about that silver hair, the powerful build, the raw masculinity.
Hot Mountain Daddy indeed.
I followed the private drive back to where it met the main road, then retraced my route toward town—the distinctive bent pine I'd passed earlier, the faded red barn, the turnoff with the rusted mailbox. Without GPS, I had to rely on memory, but somehow the landmarks were enough.