Chapter Five
Peyton
"And if we knock out this wall here," I explained, tracing my finger along the architectural rendering, "we'll create a seamless flow between the lobby and the lounge area, bringing in much more natural light."
I held my breath as Walter and Marguerite Ellison, owners of the Ashwood Lodge, exchanged glances. Their investment in this renovation represented the largest project I'd landed in my career so far, and my modern-rustic concept would either thrill or alienate them. After what seemed like an eternity, Walter's weathered face broke into a smile.
"Bold move, but I like it," he said, nodding toward his wife. "Makes the space feel twice as large without adding a single square foot."
Marguerite tapped the color palette I'd assembled. "And these earthy tones with pops of blue—they capture the essence of Fire Mountain beautifully."
Relief flooded through me. "I'm so glad you think so. The goal was to bring the outside in, creating a space that feels both luxurious and connected to the natural landscape."
"Well, you've certainly accomplished that," Walter declared, closing the portfolio with a decisive snap. "Let's fast-track this. How soon can construction begin?"
"Immediately," a voice chimed in from behind me. Carson Brooks had been hovering near the doorway, unusually subdued throughout my presentation. Now he stepped forward, charts in hand. "I've already ordered the specialty timber you requested, Ms. Chambers. And I've lined up the best crew in the county."
I suppressed a smile at his formality. Since our disastrous hike, Carson had transformed from cocky contractor to model professional—well, almost. The way he avoided meeting my eyes told me he remembered exactly how he'd bolted at the sight of blood, leaving me stranded on that slope.
"Perfect," I replied evenly. "We'll need to start with demolition in the east wing while maintaining guest access to the west. I've outlined the phase schedule here." I slid a folder toward him, maintaining the professional detachment I'd adopted since the hiking fiasco.
Carson accepted it with a nod, flipping through the pages with exaggerated interest. "These timelines are aggressive, but doable. I'll adjust the crew schedules today."
The Ellisons beamed, clearly pleased by our apparent seamless collaboration. If only they knew the awkward truth behind Carson's newfound accommodating attitude.
After finalizing a few more details and setting our next meeting, the couple departed, leaving Carson and me alone in the lodge's small conference room. Silence stretched between us until he cleared his throat.
"Listen, about the other day—"
"It's fine," I cut him off, gathering my materials. "We don't need to discuss it."
"I just want to say—"
"Really, Carson." I met his gaze directly for the first time that day. "What matters now is delivering this project on time and on budget. That's what we should focus on."
His shoulders slumped slightly with relief. "Of course. Absolutely." He hesitated, then added, "I've pulled some strings to get those custom fixtures you wanted. They'll arrive next week instead of next month."
I nodded, surprised by his initiative. "That's...helpful. Thank you."
"Anything else you need, just say the word." He gathered his own papers, clearly eager to escape the lingering discomfort between us. "I've got your back on this."
I bit back a reply about where his "back-having" had been on the mountain trail, instead offering a professional smile. "I appreciate that."
After Carson departed, I lingered in the conference room, gazing out at the view of Fire Mountain visible through the windows. The project was moving forward better than I'd hoped—which meant I'd be spending more time in Ashwood than originally planned. The thought sent an unexpected flutter through my chest that had nothing to do with interior design.
My phone buzzed with a text from Hank Masterson:
Community center ready for final decorating touches whenever you are! Can't wait to see the Forest Awakening come to life!
I smiled at his enthusiasm. When I'd arrived at the community center three days ago to assess the space for the gala, Hank had practically bounced with excitement as he explained his vision for the Fire & Ice Fundraiser. His passion for the event had been infectious, and I'd found myself volunteering to help transform the plain space into something magical. With the lodge renovations now ahead of schedule thanks to Carson's eager-to-please attitude, I had time to devote to the gala preparations.
I gathered my things and headed for the community center, my mind already shifting to the event design. The Fire & Ice Gala was only two days away, and while my team had already installed most of the major elements, I wanted to oversee the finishing touches personally.
The community center was buzzing with activity when I arrived—volunteers hanging fairy lights, florists arranging centerpieces, and Hank in the middle of it all, clipboard in hand. The transformation was already taking shape: the ceiling draped with sheer fabrics in shades of blue and green, giving the impression of being beneath a forest canopy, while strategic lighting cast dappled patterns resembling sunlight through leaves.
"Peyton!" Hank called, waving frantically. "Thank goodness you're here. We've got a lighting issue with the stage."
I followed him to the small platform where the speeches and presentations would take place. The backdrop I'd designed featured a gradient representing the transition from ice to fire—cool blues at the bottom flowing upward into warm oranges and reds. The problem was immediately apparent: the lighting made the colors wash out rather than pop.
"Let's adjust those spots," I suggested, pointing to the fixtures overhead. "Move them about fifteen degrees and increase the intensity."
As a volunteer climbed a ladder to make the adjustments, Hank flipped through his clipboard. "Oh, did I mention? We've finalized the speaker lineup. Captain Dawson will give a brief introduction, then Grant McAllister will deliver the main address on wildfire prevention."
My heart skipped at the mention of Grant's name. "Grant's giving the speech? Not just demonstrating equipment?"
"He's our star smokejumper," Hank replied, oblivious to my reaction. "Nobody knows more about wildfire dangers than Grant. Though between you and me," he lowered his voice conspiratorially, "he's not thrilled about it. Public speaking isn't exactly his thing."
I could imagine Grant's discomfort all too well—the mountain man forced into a social spotlight. The image of him standing rigidly behind a podium, uncomfortable in formal attire but determined to do his duty, brought a fond smile to my lips.
"There," the volunteer called down, having adjusted the lights. "How's that?"
The backdrop now glowed with vibrant color, the transition from cool to warm tones striking against the forest-inspired decorations surrounding it.
"Perfect," I approved. "That's exactly the impact we need."
Hank beamed. "It's all coming together beautifully! This will be the most memorable gala Ashwood has ever seen."
As we continued our walkthrough, checking each element of the design, my thoughts kept returning to Grant. Would he be prepared for his speech? Did he have what he needed? The memory of his stoic demeanor in his cabin made me wonder how he was handling the pressure of addressing Ashwood's elite.
"Hank," I asked casually as we examined the table arrangements, "do you have contact information for the speakers? I should double-check the lighting preferences for each of them."
"Of course!" He flipped through his clipboard, then tore off a sheet and handed it to me. "Here's everyone's info. Grant's probably the one you'll have trouble reaching—man barely answers his phone. But text works better than calling."
I tucked the paper into my pocket, trying to appear nonchalant. "Thanks. Just want to make sure everyone looks their best under the lights."
After finalizing a few more details with Hank, I headed back to Rachel's cottage, the paper with Grant's number burning a hole in my pocket. The rational part of my brain argued that texting him was unnecessary—the lighting would be fine regardless. But another part of me, the part that kept replaying our brief encounters, wanted an excuse to connect again before the gala.
Inside the cottage, I kicked off my shoes and sank onto the sofa, staring at my phone. What would I even say? "Hi, remember me? The disaster hiker with the inedible cookies?" I groaned at my own ridiculousness.
Sir Buttercup, who had somehow managed to sneak into my cottage yet again, jumped onto the cushion beside me. He stared at me with unblinking amber eyes, his purr rumbling like a small engine.
"What would you text, Buttercup?" I asked, scratching behind his ears. "Something suave and sophisticated, I bet."
He blinked slowly, then settled his considerable bulk against my thigh.
"You're right. Keep it simple and honest."
I took a deep breath and typed out a message:
Hi Grant, it's Peyton Chambers (the disaster hiker with the lethal cookies). I'm helping with the gala decorations and heard you're giving the main speech. Want to practice in a friendly audience? I promise no baking attempts this time—just sandwiches that won't chip teeth. Lunch tomorrow at my Airbnb?
I hit send before I could overthink it, then immediately tossed my phone onto the coffee table as if it had burned me. Sir Buttercup watched this display with feline disdain.
"Don't judge me," I told him. "I'm being neighborly. Professional. He probably won't even respond."
I busied myself with unpacking my work materials, deliberately not checking my phone. When it finally buzzed ten minutes later, I nearly knocked over a stack of fabric samples lunging for it.
Sandwiches sound safer than cookies. What time?
The simple response made me grin like I'd won a design award. I quickly replied:
Noon too early? The cottage has a nice yard for a picnic if the weather holds.
His answer came faster this time:
Noon works. Don't go to any trouble.
I assured him it was no trouble, then sat staring at my phone with a ridiculous smile. Sir Buttercup meowed loudly, perhaps reminding me that I was acting like a teenager with a crush instead of a professional designer.
"You're right," I told the cat, composing myself. "This is just helping a colleague prepare for an important presentation. Totally normal."
Sir Buttercup's expression suggested he wasn't buying it.
The next morning, I woke with a flutter of nervous energy. After showering and changing three times (finally settling on casual jeans and a green blouse that supposedly brought out my eyes), I headed to Rachel's main house to confess my lunch plans—and my complete inability to prepare anything edible.
Rachel was in her kitchen, kneading dough with flour-covered hands, when I knocked on her back door. She looked up with a warm smile that turned knowing when I explained the situation.
"So the handsome smokejumper is coming for lunch, is he?" She wiped her hands on her apron. "And you've promised food that won't send him to the dentist?"
I winced. "I may have overcommitted on my culinary abilities. Any chance you could..."
"Save you from another cooking disaster?" She laughed, her eyes twinkling. "Come on in, dear. We'll put together something simple that even you can't mess up."
Under Rachel's patient guidance, we assembled a picnic lunch that even I had to admit looked impressive: turkey and avocado sandwiches on fresh-baked bread, a colorful pasta salad, fresh fruit, and homemade iced tea. She supervised as I arranged everything in a wicker basket lined with a cheerful checkered cloth.
"There," she declared, handing me a neatly folded blanket. "All you need now is a nice spot in the yard. The apple tree's starting to bloom—that would make a lovely setting."
I hugged her impulsively. "You're a lifesaver, Rachel."
She patted my back. "Just being neighborly." But her smile told me she suspected there was more to this lunch than neighborly assistance.
An hour later, I'd spread the blanket beneath the apple tree in Rachel's backyard, which offered a stunning view of Fire Mountain in the distance. The April air carried just enough warmth to make dining outdoors pleasant, especially in the dappled sunlight beneath the tree's freshly budding branches. A few early blossoms had already opened, adding delicate white accents to the setting.
I'd just finished arranging the food when the crunch of gravel announced a vehicle in the driveway. My heart hammered as I smoothed my blouse and checked my reflection in my phone's camera. "Get a grip, Peyton," I muttered to myself. "It's just lunch."
But when Grant appeared around the corner of the cottage, all attempts at maintaining cool professionalism evaporated. He'd traded his typical work attire for clean dark jeans and a blue button-down that made his eyes seem even more intense. His hair was damp, as if freshly showered, and the hint of stubble along his jaw gave him that rugged edge that made my pulse quicken.
"Hi," I called, waving perhaps too enthusiastically. "You found the place okay?"
He nodded, approaching with that measured stride that spoke of confidence and restraint. "Rachel was out front. Pointed me around back." His gaze took in the picnic setup, one eyebrow lifting slightly. "You went to trouble."
"No trouble," I assured him, gesturing to the blanket. "Rachel helped with the food. I figured it was safer that way."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips as he lowered himself onto the blanket, keeping a respectable distance between us. "Smart decision."
"I learn from my mistakes," I replied lightly, handing him a plate. "Turkey sandwich? I promise it contains zero rocks disguised as chocolate chips."
That earned me an actual chuckle—a low, rich sound that sent warmth cascading through me. "Appreciate that." He accepted the plate, our fingers brushing briefly in the exchange.
As we began to eat, an awkward silence threatened to descend, but I was determined not to let it. This might be my only chance to help Grant prepare for his speech—and to spend time with him before the gala. And I wasn't going to waste it.