Chapter Three
Peyton
My ankle throbbed in rhythm with my heartbeat as I propped it on Rachel's floral ottoman, ice pack balancing precariously on the swollen flesh. Two days had passed since my disastrous hike with Carson, and the memory still made me cringe. The way he'd bolted at the sight of blood—and the unexpected appearance of my rugged rescuer—kept replaying in my mind like some bizarre rom-com meet-cute gone wrong.
"More tea, sweetie?" Rachel hovered near my elbow, concern etched in the lines around her eyes. She'd been fussing over me since I'd limped back to the cottage, her motherly instincts on full display.
"I'm good, thanks," I said, attempting a reassuring smile. "Really, it's just a mild sprain. The doctor at the urgent care clinic said I'll be fine in a few days."
"Well, you just keep that leg elevated." She tucked a crocheted blanket around my legs. "I've got a fresh batch of blueberry muffins coming out soon."
I opened my mouth to decline, but my stomach growled traitorously. Rachel's baking had become my guilty pleasure during recovery. "That would be lovely," I conceded.
As she bustled back to her kitchen—she'd insisted I recuperate in her main house rather than alone in the cottage—I checked my phone. No messages from Carson. No surprise there. The coward hadn't even bothered to check if I'd survived the trek down the mountain. The lodge project loomed in my mind; I'd need to face him eventually, but for now, I was secretly relieved for the excuse to delay.
My thoughts drifted instead to Grant McAllister. The smokejumper with the storm-gray eyes and capable hands who'd bandaged my leg without flinching. I'd asked Rachel about him yesterday, trying to sound casual. Her eyes had twinkled knowingly when she revealed he lived alone in a cabin up on Fire Mountain's northern slope.
"Keeps to himself, that one," she'd said. "Been that way since the Timber Ridge tragedy. Lost a teammate, you know."
I hadn't known, but the information had colored my perception of his gruff demeanor. There was a story there—pain etched into the hard lines of his face.
A heavyweight landed on my lap without warning, nearly toppling the ice pack. "Sir Buttercup!" I wheezed as twenty pounds of feline settled comfortably across my thighs.
The massive orange cat blinked innocently up at me, purring like a diesel engine. His whiskers twitched as he eyed my abandoned toast on the side table.
"Don't even think about it," I warned, scratching behind his ears. He leaned into my touch, but his gaze remained fixed on the buttered toast. "You're not as subtle as you think."
Rachel reappeared with a muffin on a delicate china plate. "That beast bothering you?" She clicked her tongue at the cat. "Sir Buttercup, leave our guest alone."
Sir Buttercup responded by stretching, casually extending one paw toward my breakfast. I laughed despite myself. "He's fine. Just plotting grand larceny."
Rachel set the muffin beside me, then picked up my nearly empty teacup. As she turned back toward the kitchen, Sir Buttercup made his move. With surprising agility for his bulk, he lunged for my toast, snatching it in his mouth and leaping off my lap in one fluid motion.
"Hey!" I yelped, wincing as my ankle protested the sudden movement.
"Sir Buttercup!" Rachel spun around, hands on hips. "You thieving little—"
The cat darted under a side table, toast clamped firmly in his jaws, amber eyes gleaming with triumph.
"I swear, that animal..." Rachel shook her head. "Sorry, dear. I'll make you more toast."
"It's alright," I assured her, unable to hold back a laugh at the absurdity. "I've still got this." I lifted the muffin, inhaling its sweet aroma.
For the first time since the hiking debacle, a genuine smile tugged at my lips. There was something oddly comforting about being fussed over by Rachel and terrorized by her kleptomaniac cat. It felt...homey in a way I wasn’t used to, having lost my own mother to breast cancer before I turned two. And that left me to be raised by my father—an allergist with as poor of a bedside manner at home as he had at work. Since I was never allowed to have a pet, I’m sure I was likely much more tolerant of Sir Buttercup’s antics than Rachel was.
As I nibbled the muffin—still warm from the oven and positively heavenly—a thought struck me. Grant had helped me without hesitation, asking nothing in return. Shouldn't I at least thank him properly?
"Rachel," I called, an idea forming. "Do you have a cookie recipe that's foolproof? And I mean completely idiot-proof?"
She appeared in the doorway, wiping flour-dusted hands on her apron. "Planning to bake, are we?"
I grinned ruefully. "I thought I might try. As a thank-you gift."
Her eyes sparkled with knowing amusement. "For that handsome smokejumper who rescued you?"
Heat crept up my neck. "Just being polite."
"Mmhmm." Her smile widened. "Well, I've got a chocolate chip recipe even a child could manage. Though I should warn you—the oven in your cottage runs hot."
An hour later, back in my own kitchen, I stared dubiously at the ingredients Rachel had provided. Baking had never been my thing, since I’d never learned how to cook. Despite being a doctor, Dad found nothing wrong with nuking frozen food or ordering takeout for all our meals. I could coordinate fabric swatches and wall textures with my eyes closed, but flour and sugar were foreign territory. Still, how hard could it be to follow a recipe?
Surprisingly hard, as it turned out.
By the time I slid the first batch into the oven, flour dusted every surface of the kitchenette, including my hair. I'd somehow gotten vanilla extract on my phone, and a suspicious brown smear—hopefully melted chocolate and not something accidentally transferred from Sir Buttercup—decorated my forehead according to my reflection.
When the timer dinged, I pulled out a tray of cookies that could generously be described as "rustic." They weren't exactly round, and the edges were darker than the centers, but the aroma was promising. I poked one experimentally. It seemed...mostly edible. Considering my history, I counted it as a success.
While the cookies cooled, I cleaned up the disaster zone and changed into a casual but flattering outfit: jeans that hugged my curves and a soft blue sweater that brought out the green in my eyes. Not that I was trying to impress anyone , I told myself. Just being presentable.
I carefully arranged the least misshapen cookies in a tin Rachel had loaned me, then faced my next challenge—finding Grant's cabin. Rachel had given me vague directions— "past the fire station, up the north service road, look for the turnoff with the fallen pine" —but I suspected I'd need more specific guidance.
"Good thing I've got a full tank of gas," I muttered, grabbing my purse and the cookie tin.
The drive up Fire Mountain's winding roads proved more challenging than anticipated. My rental sedan wasn't built for unpaved terrain, and I winced at every bump that jarred my tender ankle. After taking a wrong turn that led to a scenic overlook rather than any cabin, I spotted an elderly man checking his mailbox near a weathered house.
Rolling down my window, I called out, "Excuse me! I'm looking for Grant McAllister's place?"
He squinted at me suspiciously. "McAllister? The firefighter?" When I nodded, he jerked his thumb toward a barely visible dirt road. "Up that way, can't miss it. Only cabin that far up."
I thanked him and carefully maneuvered onto what barely qualified as a road. The sedan protested as we climbed, tires slipping occasionally on loose gravel. Just when I began to wonder if I'd misunderstood the directions, the trees thinned to reveal a small clearing. A modest log cabin perched at its edge, smoke curling from the chimney.
My heart skipped as I parked beside a large pickup truck. What was I doing here? This was crazy. I'd met the man once, under embarrassing circumstances. Now I was showing up unannounced at his remote home with questionable baked goods?
"Too late to back out now," I murmured, eyeing the cookie tin on the passenger seat. "He's already heard your car."
I grabbed the tin, took a steadying breath, and stepped out, careful not to put too much weight on my injured ankle. The mountain air felt sharp in my lungs as I approached the cabin's front door. Before I could knock, it swung open.
Grant McAllister filled the doorframe, his broad shoulders accentuated by a simple flannel shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows. His dark hair looked slightly damp, as if he'd recently showered, and his expression shifted from cautious to surprised when he recognized me.
"Hi," I blurted, suddenly tongue-tied. Up close, without the distraction of searing pain, I appreciated just how striking he was. Chiseled features, the shadow of stubble along his jaw, and those intense eyes that seemed to see right through me.
"You're the hiker," he said, his deep voice sending an unexpected shiver down my spine. "From the other day."
"Peyton," I supplied. "Peyton Chambers. You helped me when I hurt my ankle?"
"I remember." His gaze dropped briefly to my leg. "How's it healing?"
"Better, thanks to you." I thrust the cookie tin forward like a shield. "I wanted to thank you properly. I brought cookies. I made them myself." I immediately regretted adding that last part as his eyebrows rose skeptically.
After a moment's hesitation, he accepted the tin. "You didn't need to drive all the way up here."
"I wanted to." I shifted my weight, wincing slightly as my ankle protested. "May I come in? Just for a minute?"
He seemed to debate internally before stepping back with a reluctant nod. "Sure."
The cabin's interior was exactly what I'd expected from a bachelor firefighter living alone in the woods: functional, sparse, and desperately in need of a designer's touch or at least a woman’s. A worn leather couch faced a stone fireplace. A basic kitchen area occupied one corner, while a doorway presumably led to a bedroom. The wood walls stood bare except for a framed photograph and what looked like firefighting equipment.
"Nice place," I said automatically, my designer's eye already calculating what it needed. "It has great bones."
Grant set the cookie tin on a small dining table. "It works for me."
I limped further inside, unable to resist assessing the space. "The natural light is fantastic. Have you considered opening up that wall? And this fireplace—it's stunning, but it's crying out to be a focal point."
He folded his arms, looking bemused. "Are you critiquing my cabin?"
Heat flooded my cheeks. "Sorry. Occupational hazard. I'm an interior designer. Here to work on the Ashwood Lodge renovation."
Something flickered in his eyes—interest? "So that's why you were hiking with that contractor."
I grimaced. "Carson Brooks. Yes. Not my finest decision."
A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips, transforming his stern features. My breath caught. He looked younger when he almost smiled, less guarded.
"Cookie?" I suggested, gesturing to the tin.
Grant pried off the lid and studied my culinary creations with the same serious expression he might give a potential fire hazard. He selected one, took a tentative bite, and chewed thoughtfully.
"They're..." he began, searching for a diplomatic word.
"Terrible?" I supplied, laughing despite myself. "I warned you I made them."
His lips twitched. "I was going to say, interesting texture."
"That's being kind." I sighed dramatically. "I'm much better at picking paint colors than measuring flour."
He took another bite, maintaining eye contact. "It's the thought that counts."
Something warm unfurled in my chest. Was he actually being sweet? I looked around again, professional instincts kicking in. "Seriously though, this space has so much potential. You could add some textured throws on the couch, maybe a statement piece above the fireplace..."
"I don't need designer touches," he said curtly, though without real annoyance. "It's functional."
"Functional doesn't have to mean forgettable." I moved toward the fireplace, running my fingers along the rough stone. "Simple changes could make this place feel more like a home than a—"
"Temporary shelter?" he finished, something unreadable crossing his face.
I turned to find him watching me intently, cookie forgotten in his hand. The air between us seemed to thicken, crackling with unexpected tension.
"Is that how you see it?" I asked softly. "As temporary?"
His gaze dropped, shutters closing. "It's just a cabin."
But something in his tone suggested it was more than that. Rachel's mention of the tragic fire that claimed his teammate echoed in my mind, and I wondered whether Grant had also been involved in the crisis.
"Well," I said, trying to lighten the mood, "if you ever want design advice, I'm in town for a while."
"I'll keep that in mind." His tone made it clear he wouldn't.
An awkward silence stretched between us. I'd overstayed my welcome, pushing into his space with my unsolicited suggestions. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, suddenly self-conscious.
"I should go," I said. "I just wanted to say thank you. For helping me on the mountain."
He nodded, walking me to the door. "Be more careful on those trails. Or better yet, stick to marked paths with reliable companions."
"Are you volunteering?" The words slipped out before I could censor them.
Grant froze, surprise flashing across his features before his expression smoothed into careful neutrality. "I'm hardly tour guide material."
"Maybe not," I agreed, holding his gaze. "But you know these mountains."
Something flickered in his eyes—a spark I couldn't interpret. For a breathless moment, I thought he might actually agree, might offer to show me the proper way to navigate Fire Mountain's trails.
Instead, he stepped back, creating distance. "Take care of that ankle, Peyton."
The way he said my name sent a shiver through me, despite his obvious dismissal. "Right. Well, enjoy the cookies. Or use them as doorstops. They're probably dense enough."
A half-smile ghosted across his face. "They're not that bad."
"Liar," I laughed, stepping onto the porch. "But thanks for being polite about it."
I made my way carefully back to my car, acutely aware of his presence behind me. When I glanced back, he stood in the doorway, watching me with an unreadable expression.
As I drove down the mountain, I replayed our interaction. Grant McAllister clearly preferred his solitude, had little interest in interior design tips, and was merely being polite about my atrocious baking. So why did I feel this persistent pull toward him? And why couldn't I shake the feeling that, despite his hardened exterior, something had sparked between us?
"You're being ridiculous," I told my reflection in the rearview mirror. "He thinks you're a clueless city girl who can't hike or bake."
But as Ashwood came into view below, I made a silent promise to myself. I'd show Grant McAllister there was more to me than designer clothes and urban naivety. I'd prove I belonged in these mountains just as much as he did.
And maybe I'd crack that stoic facade and discover what lay beneath—if I was lucky.