Chapter Two
Bart
She was smaller than I'd expected—maybe five-three in those ridiculous fuzzy boots, blonde hair in loose waves around her shoulders, blue eyes wide. She was white-knuckling her phone, and for half a second I wondered if she was already filming this confrontation for her next viral moment.
Recognition hit her instantly. I watched it happen: confusion to shock to terror in the span of a heartbeat. Her hand moved to push the door closed.
I stopped it with my palm, kept my voice level and cold. "Don't. You filmed me without permission on my private property. Trespassing and invasion of privacy. We're discussing this right now."
I walked in before she could argue, controlled fury keeping my movements deliberate.
The Airbnb looked like a holiday store clearance sale inside—garland and lights and trees everywhere, plus a life-sized cardboard elf in the corner that seemed to be judging me.
Good. At least someone in this room had standards.
She backed up, still gripping her device like a lifeline. "I—I can explain—"
"Save it." I took out my phone, opened her video, and set it on the coffee table between us.
The sound was off, but the visuals said everything: me, shirtless, chopping wood, completely unaware I was being filmed.
The view counter kept climbing—over a million now, still rising even as we stood there.
My jaw tightened. "Million-plus views and climbing. Shared across every platform. Trending hashtags. My property, my body—posted on social media without my consent. You want to explain that?"
Her face had gone pale beneath whatever makeup she was wearing. She couldn't have been more than twenty-five—way too young to be this self-destructive, though that probably explained the impulsive decision-making.
"I didn't think—"
"No, you didn't think. You saw what you wanted and you took it. Didn't matter that I was on private land. Didn't matter that I might not want to be plastered across the internet. I was convenient, a commodity to you."
The words came out harsher than I intended, but I was too angry to moderate. This was the intrusion I'd moved to Hope Peak to escape. People using me, taking from me, treating me like I existed for their benefit.
My mind flashed back to this morning—peaceful and quiet, the life I'd built here.
I'd been in the workshop by seven, working on the walnut dining table commission.
Around mid-morning, I'd taken a break to check social media, monitoring local news sources.
With Christmas Wishes launching soon, I'd been keeping an eye on community hashtags, gauging interest in local events.
That's when I saw it.
#HopePeak was trending. And the top post was me.
Hot Mountain Daddy. Over a million views and climbing. Comments objectifying every part of me, people trying to identify my location, speculation about who I was. My hard-won quiet life, threatened by some stranger with a camera.
I'd stared at my feed, rage building with each passing second.
The video had been filmed this morning—I recognized the workshop in the background, the specific woodpile I'd been splitting, the bent tree branch visible over my shoulder.
Someone had been on my land. Trespassing. Filming without permission.
I texted Felicia Townsend, the property manager who handled local vacation rentals. She connected the dots between @CandiCoatedLife and the woman who had rented the cottage and passed me the address without protest. The drive took about twenty minutes, each minute feeding my irritation.
Now, standing in this ridiculously cheerful house, I tried to hold onto that edge.
But she'd broken down crying.
Not the calculated manipulation I'd seen from my ex-wife—this was real panic. Tears streaming, breath hitching, hands trembling. She bit her lower lip, trying to hold it together.
What the hell was wrong with me? I was supposed to stay angry, not notice the curve of her mouth.
The story came out in fragments. An ex-fiancé who'd dumped her on camera. A viral breakup that destroyed her career. Sponsors dropping her, followers leaving, losing her apartment, her income, everything. Coming to Hope Peak as a final gamble to save herself.
"I saw you and I just—" She wiped at her face, mascara smudging dark beneath those expressive eyes.
"I knew it would perform well and I was frantic and it was so wrong but I did it anyway and I'm so sorry.
I'll take it down. I'll post an apology.
I'll do whatever you want, just please don't sue me.
I can't afford a lawyer. I can barely afford to be here. "
She was falling apart in front of me, drowning.
The anger simmering in my chest started to cool.
This wasn't calculated. She was just young and broke and reckless, making terrible decisions because she was backed into a corner.
Still wrong. Absolutely, unquestionably wrong.
But different from the cold exploitation I'd experienced before.
I watched her while she cried. Twenty-five at most. Living off savings that were clearly running dry.
She'd built her entire identity on external validation—likes, followers, brand deals.
When her ex humiliated her publicly, she'd lost everything.
Now she was trying to claw it back any way she could.
She pushed her hair back from her face, and despite everything, I registered what I'd been trying to ignore.
Twenty-five at most, with curves in all the right places beneath that cream sweater, smooth skin that looked like she'd never spent a day outdoors, and probably a smile—when she wasn't crying—that could be equal parts devilish and angelic depending on what she wanted.
I was forty-two years old and hadn't been with anyone in three years, and my body didn't care about ethics or legal violations. Blood headed south despite every logical reason it shouldn't.
I took a step back, needing distance.
The rational part of my brain said to follow through with the lawsuit. Make an example. Protect myself.
But a lawsuit meant publicity. Court filings. Media attention. Journalists digging into why I was hiding in Montana.
The opposite of what I wanted.
An idea was forming. Risky, possibly brilliant, potentially disastrous.
I'd been planning Christmas Wishes for months—a charity where struggling families could submit wish lists and I'd purchase gifts for Christmas Eve delivery. Give kids the Christmas I never had growing up, when my single mother worked three jobs and still couldn't afford presents.
But I'd been stuck on logistics. I had the money. What I needed was organization, promotion, someone who knew how to spread the word without exposing my identity.
Someone who owed me. Someone desperate enough to do exactly what I needed.
Someone like her.
I made my decision.
"I'm not going to sue you," I said.
Her head snapped up, hope flooding her face. "You're not?"
"One condition."
She was listening now, leaning forward slightly.
"Anything. I'll do anything. I'll take the video down right now—"
"Leave the video up."
"What?"
"Leave it up. Let it run its course. But you're going to help me with a project. You help me through Christmas, follow my rules, and I'll drop this. Violate the agreement or fail to hold up your end, legal action is back on the table. Understood?"
"I don't... what project?"
I grabbed my phone, opened the photos I'd taken of the converted barn last week. Scrolled through images of wish lists, organizational systems, gifts I'd already purchased.
"Christmas Wishes," I said, handing her the device.
Our fingers brushed in the exchange, and the contact sent an unwelcome jolt straight through me.
I yanked my hand back, covering the reaction by crossing my arms. "A charity to help struggling families in Hope Peak have a real Christmas.
I collect wish lists, purchase gifts, coordinate delivery on Christmas Eve.
But I need help with promotion, organization, and logistics. That's where you come in."
She stared at the screen, scrolling through the photos. Those features shifted with each image—surprise, then wonder, then honest feeling.
"This is... you're really doing this? This is real?"
"Been planning it for months. Already have twenty-seven families registered through a dropbox at the community center.
" I paused, and the words came out rougher than I intended.
"When I was eight, my mother worked three jobs and we still couldn't afford Christmas.
I remember telling her it was okay, that Santa probably just got confused about our address.
No kid should have to lie to make their parent feel better. "
She met my gaze, and her expression softened. She was reassessing who I was beneath the angry mountain man threatening lawsuits, and the way those blue eyes warmed—honest, without performance—hit me harder than it should have.
"Why do you need my help if you've already got it organized?"
Smart question. Maybe she wasn't as vapid as her aesthetic suggested.
"I have the funding and logistics covered.
What I don't have is reach. Families who need help don't know this exists yet.
I need someone who can run a social media campaign, get people engaged, donating, volunteering.
Someone who knows how to make things go viral.
And someone who can do all of that while keeping me out of the spotlight. "
"Out of the spotlight?"