Chapter One #3
I pulled into the first parking lot I saw once I hit the main street.
My fingers trembled as I opened my phone and got to work.
Editing took twenty minutes.
This was where I excelled. Five years of platform changes, algorithm updates, trending audio that lasted maybe three days—I'd learned to edit fast and edit smart.
I knew which audio would work. There was a sultry, bass-heavy sound popular on TikTok and Instagram Reels right now—something that would make people stop scrolling, turn up their volume, watch.
I scrubbed through the footage, selecting the best clips. Him swinging—slow-motion. The stretch, arms overhead—definitely keeping that, maybe slowing it down even more. The shot where you could see his profile, the concentration, that striking gray hair catching what little light there was.
I added the audio, syncing it to the best moments. Bumped up the brightness slightly to make the snow sparkle. Added a subtle vignette to focus attention on him. Enhanced the color correction to make his hair pop.
Text overlay: "Discovered a Hot Mountain Daddy in the wild ????"
Hashtags: #HopePeak #MountainMan #HotMountainDaddy #Montana #SilverFox #ChristmasContent
I previewed it twice, making tiny adjustments. Thirty seconds long—ideal length for maximum engagement. The music fit perfectly. The visuals were stunning.
It was perfection on film.
It was also a massive invasion of privacy.
I stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the "post" button.
This is wrong. You know this is wrong.
My throat felt tight. Nausea and adrenaline twisted together.
But it'll perform. It'll save you.
I thought about my reputation. About my bank account. About going home to Phoenix and admitting failure to everyone who'd watched me build this crazy career. About watching Drew flourish while I was left with egg on my face.
He's just a hot guy chopping wood. You're not showing his face clearly—it's mostly profile shots, and he's far away in some of them. You're not using his name because you don't even know his name. It's fine. This is fine.
The rationalization barely held together.
What if he finds out? What if he's angry? What if he—
What if this is your only chance to turn things around?
I took a deep breath.
And I hit post.
The upload took seconds. I watched the little loading circle disappear, watched it become real and permanent and irreversible.
Oh god. What did I just do?
But even as guilt crashed over me, I couldn't help refreshing to see if anyone had liked it yet.
My phone exploded.
Not literally, obviously. But it might as well have.
Within five minutes, 200 likes. Within ten minutes, 500. Within twenty minutes, 2,000.
I sat in my car in the parking lot, watching the numbers climb—elation and horror twisting in my chest.
Within an hour, 15,000 likes.
Comments poured in so fast I couldn't keep up.
@maddieinthemountains: DADDY ??????
@jessicawrites: I NEED HIS LOCATION IMMEDIATELY
@christmaslover24: Hot Mountain Daddy saved Christmas
@influencertea: Candi's comeback era starts NOW
@sierra.jones: forget Drew, THIS is what we need
@mountainmamalife: ma'am you can't just post this and not give us MORE
The video was being shared. Reposted. Stitched on TikTok. People were screenshotting the best frames—him mid-swing, muscles flexing—and posting them with their own thirsty captions.
#HotMountainDaddy started trending.
My follower count started climbing.
487,432.
495,105.
510,678.
520,145.
528,763.
I sat there watching the numbers rise, feeling the validation pour in, riding the high that came from going viral. This was what I'd needed. This was what I'd been desperately chasing.
This is it.
People weren't talking about the breakup anymore. They weren't making "Candi has no flavor" jokes. They were talking about Hot Mountain Daddy. My video. My shot.
They were following me again.
I was winning.
That small voice screaming this was wrong got quieter with every hundred likes.
I'll just leave it up for a while. Just until things stabilize. He probably won't even see it. And if he does... I'll deal with it then.
But the video had 100,000 views now. It was trending. It was working.
Too late now.
I drove back to the cottage feeling lighter than I had in weeks.
BY 8 PM, THE VIDEO had 1.2 million views.
Brands were sliding into my DMs asking about partnerships.
People were begging for more Hope Peak content, more Mountain Daddy updates, more everything.
Someone had made a TikTok compilation using my video.
Another person had created a "Hot Mountain Daddy Appreciation Thread" on Twitter.
A third had photoshopped him into various romantic scenarios—silver fox Santa, mountain prince, wilderness husband.
It was insane.
I was lying on the couch scrolling through comments—trying to ignore the increasingly frantic requests for his identity, his location, his relationship status—while Mariah Carey warbled about all she wanted for Christmas through my laptop speakers.
Then someone knocked on my door.
Not a polite knock.
A loud, aggressive, "open this door right now" kind of knock.
I jumped, my phone clattering to the floor.
Who the hell—?
I scrambled off the couch and walked to the door, peering through the peephole.
My stomach dropped straight through the floor.
Standing on my doorstep was the man from the video.
Even through the fish-eye distortion, I recognized him instantly. That silver-gray hair. Those broad shoulders. The strong jaw shadowed with stubble.
He was fully dressed now—heavy jacket, flannel, work boots—but there was no mistaking who he was.
The man I'd filmed without permission.
The man whose shirtless video had just saved my failing career.
And from the rigid set of his shoulders and the hard line of his mouth, he knew exactly what I'd done.
"I know you're in there," he said, voice firm and carrying clearly through the door. "We need to talk. Now."