Chapter 3
three
Lottie
I'm definitely lost.
The trail map I picked up at the lodge made this route look simple. A gentle two-mile loop through the forest to a scenic overlook. What it didn't mention was the spider web of smaller paths branching off in every direction, each one looking equally legitimate.
"This is what I get for trying to commune with nature," I mutter, consulting my phone for the dozenth time. Still no signal, and the battery is down to thirty percent.
The morning started perfectly. I'd woken early, determined to make the most of my forced vacation, and set out with a backpack full of supplies and my camera.
The first hour was actually pleasant—fresh mountain air, wildflowers blooming everywhere, and enough Instagram-worthy vistas to prove to Chloe that I was embracing the outdoors.
Then I'd taken what I thought was a shortcut.
Now I'm standing at another unmarked junction, three paths diverging into the forest with no indication which leads back to civilization. The sun is climbing higher, and despite the morning cool, sweat dampens my hiking shirt.
"You're fine," I tell myself, choosing the path that seems to head downhill. "Civilization is downhill. That's basic survival logic."
Twenty minutes later, I emerge into a clearing and stop dead in my tracks.
He's there again.
This time he's fully clothed, darn. In worn jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, but the impact is just as devastating.
He's stacking split logs into neat cords near what must be his cabin, movements economical and graceful.
Sunlight filters through the trees, casting him in golden light that makes my camera-trained eye itch to capture the scene.
But more than his physical appeal, it's the way he belongs here that stops me.
Every movement speaks of deep familiarity with this place, of someone completely comfortable in his own skin and environment.
It's a kind of confidence I recognize from boardrooms but have never seen translated to the wilderness.
I should announce myself. Should apologize for yesterday's awkward encounter and ask for directions back to town. Instead, I find myself frozen again, watching the play of muscles beneath his shirt, the way he pauses occasionally to wipe his hands on a rag tucked into his back pocket.
This time, he senses my presence before I can flee.
"Lost?" he asks, not even turning around.
Heat floods my cheeks. "I... yes. Maybe? The trails aren't very well marked."
He straightens slowly, turning to face me. Up close, his features are even more striking—a strong jaw under a full beard, straight nose, and lines around his eyes that speak of frequent laughter and long hours in the sun.
"Depends on your destination," he says, his voice carrying a hint of amusement that suggests he knows exactly why I'm here.
"The lodge," I manage, trying to project more confidence than I feel. "Silver Ridge Lodge. I'm staying there."
"I figured." His lips quirk in what might be the beginning of a smile. "Lottie Smith, right?"
My mouth falls open. "How do you—"
"Small town," he explains, setting down the log he'd been holding. "Word travels fast, especially about beautiful strangers."
The casual compliment sends warmth spiraling through me. I'm used to smooth corporate flattery, but something in his direct gaze suggests he means exactly what he says.
"You have me at a disadvantage," I say, grateful when my voice comes out steady. "You know my name, but I don't know yours."
"Jakob Lindstrom." He steps closer, close enough that I catch a hint of pine and sweat. "And you're about two miles from the lodge, heading in the wrong direction."
"Oh." Disappointment crashes through me. Two miles might as well be twenty in my current state. "I guess I'll just retrace my steps."
"Or," he says, something shifting in his expression, "I could show you a shortcut. There's a path through my property that cuts the distance in half."
I hesitate. Every instinct honed by years of city living screams that following strange men into isolated forests is a terrible idea.
But everything about Jakob Lindstrom radiates steady reliability rather than danger.
And honestly, the alternative is wandering in circles until my phone dies completely.
"I don't want to impose," I say, though we both know I'm going to accept.
"No imposition. I was heading that direction anyway."
It's probably a lie told for my benefit, but I nod gratefully. "Thank you. I promise I'm not usually this helpless in the outdoors."
"First time in the mountains?" he asks, shouldering a small pack and gesturing for me to follow.
"First time anywhere that doesn't have concrete and reliable cell service," I admit, falling into step beside him on a well-worn path. "I'm more of a five-star hotel person."
"And yet here you are," he observes, glancing sideways at me. "What changed your mind?"
The question catches me off guard. I could give him the simple answer—forced vacation, friend's meddling, need to relax. But something about his direct gaze invites honesty.
"Burnout," I say finally. "My best friend staged an intervention. Apparently eighteen-hour workdays and living on coffee and takeout isn't sustainable long-term."
"Apparently not." There's no judgment in his voice, just understanding. "What kind of marketing?"
"Corporate acquisitions, mostly. When one company wants to buy another, I help craft the narrative that makes it sound like a good idea rather than a hostile takeover." I pause, realizing how cynical that sounds. "It's more interesting than I’m making it out to be."
"I'm sure it is," he says, and surprisingly, he seems to mean it.
We walk in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the path winding through increasingly beautiful forest. I find myself stealing glances at Jakob, fascinated by the way he moves through this environment with unconscious grace. Every step is sure, every gesture economical and purposeful.
"What about you?" I ask eventually. "Born and raised in Silver Ridge?"
"Third generation," he confirms. "Work heavy equipment for the logging operations. My brother and I both do—different crews, but we keep the family tradition going."
There's quiet pride in his voice that speaks of genuine satisfaction with his life choices. No corporate climbing, no constant striving for more—just solid work and deep roots.
We emerge from the forest onto a ridge that offers a spectacular view of Silver Ridge below. The town looks like a toy village from this height, surrounded by endless forest and crowned by mountains that seem to touch the sky.
"Wow," I breathe, pulling out my phone automatically to capture the scene.
"Signal's better up here too," Jakob observes, watching me frame the shot.
He's right. My phone shows two bars, enough to send a quick photo to Chloe with the caption "Maybe you were right about the scenery." Her response comes immediately: "Send more pics of the hot locals!"
I slip the phone back into my pocket, heat rising in my cheeks. If Chloe could see Jakob, she'd be insufferably smug about her matchmaking instincts.
"The lodge is just down that trail," Jakob says, pointing to a path that descends toward town. "Twenty minutes, maybe less."
"Thank you," I say, meaning it sincerely. "I would have been wandering in circles all day."
"Probably," he agrees with that almost-smile. "The forest can be confusing if you don't know the landmarks."
There's an awkward pause as we both realize this is goodbye. Part of me wants to linger, to extend this unexpected encounter, but I can't think of a reasonable excuse.
"Maybe I'll see you around town," I say finally, immediately regretting how tentative it sounds.
"Maybe," he agrees, but something in his expression suggests he's thinking the same thing I am—that Silver Ridge isn't big enough for our paths not to cross again.
I'm halfway down the trail when I hear his voice calling after me, echoing slightly off the rocks.
"Lottie?"
I turn back, pulse jumping at the sound of my name in his deep voice.
"There's a festival tonight. Music, food, dancing. Nothing fancy, but..." He shrugs, suddenly looking less than completely confident. "If you're not busy."
"I don't really dance," I say, which is both true and a completely inadequate response to what might be the most attractive invitation I've ever received.
"Neither do I," he replies, that almost-smile becoming something warmer. "But they serve excellent barbecue ribs."
Despite everything—my vacation plans, my usual type, my complete incompatibility with small-town life—I find myself nodding.
"What time?" I ask.
"Seven. Main street is closed to traffic, so you can't miss it."
As I continue down the trail toward the lodge, I can feel his eyes following me until the trees block his view. My pulse is still racing, and I can't stop smiling despite my better judgment.
A festival. With Jakob. Who called me beautiful and offered to show me shortcuts through his forest.
I should be sensible. I should remember that I'm leaving in six days and he lives in a different world from mine. Should focus on relaxation and getting my life back on track rather than developing inconvenient attractions to unsuitable men.
But apparently, when Jakob Lindstrom invites you dancing, sensible flies right out the window.