Chapter Six
Grant
I hadn't expected to agree to lunch. When the text from Peyton lit up my phone the night before, my first instinct was to decline. Public speaking was bad enough without an audience for my practice attempts. But something about her self-deprecating humor about those terrible cookies had made me smile, and before I could think better of it, I'd accepted.
Now, sitting on a checkered blanket beneath an apple tree in Rachel Jennings' backyard, I was alternating between regretting my decision and being oddly glad I'd come. The picnic setup was nicer than I'd anticipated—clearly, she'd put thought into it. And the food, which she'd immediately credited to Rachel, was genuinely good.
"So," Peyton said, breaking the silence that had settled between us, "the speech. How's it coming?"
I swallowed a bite of sandwich, buying time. "It's...coming."
She grinned. "That convincing, huh?"
"Not my thing," I admitted. "Standing in front of people, talking."
"I get that." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "My first client presentation, I was so nervous I spilled coffee all over my carefully prepared material samples."
That detail surprised me. She struck me as someone naturally comfortable in social situations—polished, confident. "What happened?"
Her green eyes lit up. "The client loved how the fabrics looked with the 'intentional' coffee stain and asked for the whole design to incorporate the aesthetic." She laughed. "Sometimes our worst mistakes lead to unexpected opportunities."
Like getting lost on a hiking trail and meeting someone who made your pulse quicken? I pushed the thought aside, focusing on my sandwich.
"Want to practice your speech?" she asked. "I'm a great audience—supportive but honest."
I hesitated, looking past her to the distant outline of Fire Mountain. The truth was, I hadn't prepared much of anything. Dawson had given me bullet points, but the thought of stringing them into coherent sentences in front of Ashwood's elite made my stomach clench.
"Not sure there's much to practice," I said finally. "Just facts and figures about wildfire prevention."
"Facts and figures can be compelling with the right delivery," she pointed out. "What's the main message you want people to take away?"
The question caught me off guard—not what I would say, but what I wanted people to hear. I considered it for a moment. "That most wildfires are preventable. That carelessness costs lives." The image of Travis flashed through my mind—his cocky grin, his skill in the field, the empty casket they'd buried when there wasn't enough left to recover.
"That's powerful," Peyton said quietly, as if sensing the weight behind my words. "People will listen to that, especially coming from someone with your experience."
I studied her, searching for any sign she was simply being polite, but her expression held nothing but genuine interest. Reluctantly, I reached for the folder I'd brought with me.
"Dawson gave me these talking points," I said, opening it between us on the blanket.
She moved closer to see, her shoulder nearly touching mine. The scent of her perfume—something light and floral—mingled with the apple blossoms overhead. I forced myself to focus on the papers, not the warmth of her beside me.
"These are good foundations," she observed, scanning the bullet points, "but they're a bit dry. What if you opened with a personal story? Something that illustrates why this matters to you?"
I tensed. The suggestion touched too close to what I kept buried—my buddy, Timber Ridge, the guilt that still surfaced in my nightmares. She noticed my reaction immediately.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to overstep—"
"No, you're right," I cut in, surprising myself. "A story would connect better than statistics." The words felt difficult to form, but somehow necessary. "I lost someone. To a fire that shouldn't have happened."
I hadn't meant to admit that. The confession hung in the air between us, more personal than I'd intended to get. But instead of the awkward sympathy I'd expected, Peyton simply nodded, her eyes reflecting understanding rather than pity.
"Then that's your opening," she said softly. "Not the details, necessarily, but the impact. Why you do what you do. Why it matters."
Something loosened in my chest—not relief exactly, but acknowledgment. "I could do that."
She smiled, encouragement warming her features. "Start there, then move into the prevention tips. People need both the emotional connection and the practical information."
For the next hour, we refined my approach to the speech. Peyton had a knack for this—structuring information, finding narrative threads, suggesting places to pause for impact. As we worked, my initial discomfort faded. The words began to flow more naturally, the message clearer in my mind.
"You're a natural teacher," I remarked as she suggested a stronger transition between two sections.
She looked surprised, then pleased. "I've never thought of it that way. I just like helping people communicate their vision clearly." She tilted her head, considering. "Whether it's a room design or a speech, it's about making connections."
"Connections," I echoed, the word resonating oddly in my chest. I'd spent years avoiding them, retreating to my mountain sanctuary after each shift. Yet here I was, forming one despite myself.
"What about stage fright?" I asked, redirecting. "Got any magic cures for that?"
A mischievous spark lit her eyes. "Well, there's always the classic advice about picturing the audience in their underwear."
Heat crawled up my neck at the thought—particularly since the only audience member I could clearly visualize was sitting right beside me. The unbidden image of Peyton without her carefully chosen outfit sent a jolt of electricity down my spine.
"I don't think that would help," I managed, my voice rougher than intended.
She laughed, apparently not noticing my sudden discomfort. "Probably not. Better to focus on one friendly face in the crowd." She paused, then added with a hint of shyness, "You could look for me, if you want. I'll be there, cheering you on."
Our eyes met, and something shifted in the space between us. The professional pretense of speech coaching suddenly felt thin, barely concealing whatever this pull between us was becoming.
"I'd like that," I admitted quietly.
Her smile softened. "Tell me about them. The person you lost."
The question should have felt intrusive, but somehow it didn't. Maybe it was the gentleness in her voice, or the fact that she'd offered help without expecting anything in return. Whatever the reason, I found myself talking about Travis—his fearlessness, his terrible jokes, the way he could read a fire's behavior like it was speaking to him.
"We were a team for three years," I said, staring at the distant mountain. "And best friends longer than that. Travis Beck. Best smokejumper I ever knew. Until he wasn't."
"What happened?" she asked softly.
"Timber Ridge. A carelessly discarded cigarette during drought conditions. It grew too fast, changed direction unexpectedly." The familiar knot of guilt tightened in my chest. "I was team lead. Should have pulled us out sooner."
"You couldn't have known," she said, her hand settling lightly on my arm.
"My job to know," I countered, though without the usual edge that accompanied these thoughts. "Anyway, that's why this speech matters. If even one person thinks twice about that cigarette butt or campfire..."
She nodded, understanding in her eyes. "It's worth the discomfort of public speaking."
"Yeah." I glanced at her, noticing a shadow cross her expression. "What about you? You lost someone too?"
She looked startled. "How did you...?"
"The way you reacted. Not with pity. Like you understood."
Peyton drew a deep breath. "My mother. Breast cancer. I was barely two, so I don't really remember her." She traced a pattern on the blanket with her finger. "My father raised me—he's an allergist. Brilliant doctor, but after my mom died, I think part of him died, too. It was like he was just going through the motions of life but not really there. At least, not emotionally."
That explained her immediate bond with Rachel, the way she lit up around the motherly woman. "Is that why you don't cook?" I asked, the connection suddenly clear.
She laughed, the melancholy lifting from her features. "That obvious? Yeah, Dad thought frozen dinners and take-out were perfectly acceptable nutrition. I never learned the basics." She gestured to the picnic. "Hence needing Rachel's help with anything more complicated than cereal."
"Those cookies were... memorable," I offered with a slight smile.
"Oh God," she groaned, covering her face. "They were atrocious. I'm surprised you didn't throw them at intruders off your porch."
"Considered it," I admitted, enjoying her laugh. "Would've made effective weapons."
At that moment, a blur of orange fur shot across the blanket, startling us both. A cat running too quickly than one would have thought possible given its size, made a beeline for the remains of our lunch. In its eagerness, it tangled between Peyton's legs as she tried to stand, sending her off-balance.
I moved without thinking, catching her before she could fall. Her weight landed against my chest, my arms instinctively circling her waist. For a breathless moment, we froze in that position, faces inches apart, her hands braced against my shoulders.
"Sorry," she whispered, though she made no move to step away.
"Don't be." My voice emerged lower than usual, almost rough.
Her eyes dropped to my lips, then back up. The air between us seemed to crackle with unspoken tension. I should release her, I knew—step back, maintain that careful distance. But my body refused to cooperate, hands still warm against the small of her back.
The feline bandit chose that moment to knock over the iced tea pitcher, breaking the spell. Peyton stepped back, cheeks flushed, as we both moved to salvage what remained of the picnic. The cat sat nearby, looking entirely too pleased.
"Menace," I muttered, though without heat.
"Rachel warned me," Peyton replied, smiling as she knelt to dab at the spilled tea with napkins. "Apparently food security isn't Sir Buttercup’s strong suit."
"Not sure I'd call him 'security' of any kind."
That made her laugh again, easing some of the tension that had built between us. But not all of it. Something had changed in that near-miss moment—a boundary crossed or at least acknowledged. Neither of us seemed ready to address it directly.
As we packed up the remains of lunch, I found myself rehearsing then discarding potential words. Ask her to the gala? As what—my date? The concept seemed foreign after so long avoiding such entanglements. Yet the thought of walking into that event alone, knowing she'd be there, suddenly seemed unnecessarily stubborn.
"About Saturday," I said finally, as we stood by my truck. "The gala."
She looked up, one hand still clutching the picnic basket. "What about it?"
"Would you—" I paused, unused to this particular brand of vulnerability. "I know you'll be busy with the decorations, but would you want to be my date? For the gala?"
The surprise that flickered across her face almost made me regret asking, but then a warm smile spread across her features.
"I'd love to," she replied, the genuine delight in her voice catching me off guard.
Relief flowed through me. "Good," I said simply, unable to find more eloquent words. "I'll pick you up at six."
As I climbed into my truck, I caught her watching me, that soft smile still playing on her luscious lips. The image stayed with me as I drove back up the mountain, along with the lingering scent of apple blossoms and her perfume, the feeling of her in my arms, the sound of her laugh.
For the first time in years, I was looking forward to a social event—not dreading it. Because she would be there, not as some abstract audience member, but as my date.
My date. The concept still felt strange but not unwelcome. No, not unwelcome at all.