How to Love a Mountain Man (Infatuated #3)

1. Shae

1

SHAE

“ W ell, Shae? What do you think?”

I take a step back from the maple tree, tilting my head to study how the branches frame the mountain view. My realtor’s question hangs in the air between us, but I need another minute. Another breath. The property sprawls before me, untamed and quiet, everything I’ve spent eighteen months searching for.

No neighbors in sight. No road noise. Just trees and silence and possibility.

“I think I really like it.” I turn to face Wendy. “But I want to explore the property a little more.”

Wendy’s face lights up, but then she hesitates. “Before you do, there’s something you should know. It’s fifteen acres.”

My eyes widen. I’ve been looking at five-acre lots for the past year and a half.

“I know it’s more than you were planning for,” she continues quickly. “But the price per acre is actually pretty reasonable.”

She names the property’s listing price. My heart sinks, but I do the mental math. If I dip into my house-building fund and cut back on non-essentials, I could maybe swing it. I’d have to live in a smaller cabin for much longer than I’d originally planned for, but for this property…

“Go ahead and look around. Really imagine if it could work for you.” Wendy waves her phone. “Take your time. I’ve got some emails to catch up on.”

I part ways with my realtor, following what looks like an old walking path as I move deeper into the property. A small creek burbles somewhere to my left, the sound barely audible over the rustle of leaves. I make a mental note to explore it later, but for now I keep following the path, which eventually opens up onto a perfect building site nestled between the trees. Building a home here would be easier than on many of the other plots I’ve seen. The extra acreage would mean more work maintaining the land, but also more guaranteed privacy.

The path curves around a particularly massive maple, and I pause. From this vantage point, I can see how the property sits perfectly positioned on the mountainside. High enough for privacy, low enough to avoid the worst of winter’s fury. Close enough to Fairhope that I won’t have to quit my job at the library, but far enough that I won’t hear the summer tourists who flood the coastal town every year.

A breeze rustles through the canopy above, and I close my eyes and listen. Really listen.

No traffic humming in the distance. No neighbors’ TVs through shared walls. No early morning deliveries rattling up the street. Just wind in the leaves, birds calling to each other, and the soft thud of my own heartbeat.

I’ve lost track of how many properties I’ve seen since I first started looking. Some were too close to the highway. Others needed more terrain work than my savings could handle. The rest had neighboring houses peeking through the trees. Each viewing ended the same way: with me walking away, unwilling to settle for almost-right when I knew exactly what I wanted.

But this? This is perfect.

Well, perfect except for the cost.

Time to head back to Wendy and talk through the reality of that price tag. I take one last look at the mountainside, trying to commit every detail to memory. Just in case.

I’m halfway back to the entrance where Wendy is waiting for me when I hear car doors slam, followed by male laughter. A deep voice carries through the trees, and something in its warm timbre makes me pause mid-step. I round the final bend in the path and stop short.

Two men stand by a parked SUV, and it’s immediately obvious that the pair is a realtor and his client—the client being a tall man dressed in a dark green tee that pulls snug across his chest. The man’s caramel-brown hair looks freshly tousled, and he’s gesturing at the maple trees, the movement of his arm drawing my eyes to his muscled arms.

When he turns and spots me, his smile scatters every coherent thought in my head.

“Gorgeous property, isn’t it?” he asks warmly, as if the two of us know each other.

I open my mouth, but no words come out. I’m the kind of person who rehearses basic social interactions before making phone calls, who chose a career surrounded by quiet books instead of chatty people. In a scenario like this, all my brain can do is short-circuit.

“Shae?” Wendy’s voice cuts through my panic. “We should get going if you want me to get started on an offer.”

I’ve never been more grateful for an interruption in my life. I manage a quick nod in the stranger’s direction before practically fleeing to Wendy’s car. As we pull away, my eyes slide over to the side mirror—not to look at the man who just rendered me speechless, but at my dream property, finally found.

But there’s no avoiding the sight of the attractive stranger as he stands among the maple trees.

Wendy submits an offer on my behalf that afternoon. We both know it’s on the low end, but Wendy agrees that it’s worth a shot. Maybe the seller will be willing to negotiate.

They’re not. The counter-offer they send back barely budges from the list price, along with a note that another party has expressed serious interest.

“Do you think they’re bluffing?” I ask Wendy over the phone, pacing my tiny apartment kitchen in nervous circles.

“I don’t think so.” She pauses. “Remember that guy we saw at the property? The tall one? My gut says he’s our competition.”

I do remember. Hard not to.

The bidding war starts in earnest the next day. Each time I scrape together a higher offer, convinced I’m already stretching too far, the other bidder immediately tops it. I dip further and further into my house-building fund just to stay in the game, knowing it means I’m making more and more sacrifices with each round. But for this property—for that perfect slice of solitude—I’ll make it work.

Just when I think I’ve reached my absolute limit, when I’ve cut my budget so far that I’ll be eating ramen for longer than I can bear to think about, Wendy calls with news that makes my heart plummet.

A third bidder—a developer—has emerged with an offer that blows both myself and my rival out of the water.

I spend the next few hours lying on my couch, deflated, trying not to think about bulldozers tearing down the maple trees. I’m just starting to accept the loss when Wendy calls me again.

“I might have a solution,” she says when I pick up. There’s an edge of excitement in her voice that makes me sit up hopefully. “Remember that guy we saw at the property?”

My stomach does a strange little flip. “What about him?”

“I was right—he’s the other bidder you were going back and forth with before the developer swooped in. His name is Julian North, and his realtor just called me with a proposition.”

I pull my knees to my chest, trying to process this—and trying not to remember the tall man’s way-too-attractive smile. “What kind of proposition?”

“He suggested that you and Julian could pool your resources. You could combine your offers, outbid the developer, and split the fifteen acres between you. It’d be seven and a half acres each.”

“Split it?” My chest feels tight at the thought of compromising my dream of perfect solitude. I know I’m being unreasonable—seven and a half acres is more than enough space to disappear into. But something about splitting the property in two—and sharing it with him —unsettles my stomach.

“I know it’s not what you’ve been picturing,” Wendy says gently. “But it would still be significantly more than the five acres you were originally looking for.”

Through my apartment walls, I can hear my neighbor’s bass-heavy music pulsing into my space. I rub my temples. “How would we even split it?”

“Actually, Julian’s realtor just sent over a proposed layout. I forwarded it to your email—take a look and see what you think.”

Still holding my phone to my ear, I open my laptop and pull up the email. The attached document shows the property split into two plots, each with its own marked building site.

“Plot A has those maple trees you loved,” Wendy adds while I study the layout. “Though you might have some competition for that side—Julian liked the clearing too. Either way, the houses would be plenty far apart.”

She’s right. Even with Julian as a neighbor, I could still build exactly where I’d planned. I could still create the sanctuary I’ve been dreaming of.

But my stomach twists at the thought of him living just through those trees. Even if I never saw him, I’d know he was there. I’d know exactly what he looked like when he smiled.

I close my eyes. This is the closest I’ve come to finding the perfect property in eighteen months of searching. And right now, it’s this or nothing.

“Tell his realtor I’m interested,” I say. “But I want Plot A.”

Twenty-four nerve-wracking hours later, the seller accepts our joint offer over the developer's. Suddenly it's real—I’m buying half of my dream property.

I’m thrilled. Elated . I’ve never felt so excited in my life.

Six weeks later, I arrive early at Wendy’s office to sign the final paperwork. The conference room feels awfully warm, but maybe it’s just my nerves. I’ve gone over the property division documents a dozen times with Wendy, but my chest still feels tight as I spread them across the table, checking one more time.

“Coffee?” Wendy asks, poking her head in. When I nod, she returns with two steaming cups. “Julian just texted. He’s running a few minutes late.”

I take a sip of coffee, trying to calm my racing thoughts. “You don’t think he’s going to back out at the last second, do you?”

“No chance.” Wendy settles into the chair across from me. “Trust me, I can tell he wants this place as much as you do.”

That shouldn’t make my stomach flutter the way it does. I focus on my coffee instead of analyzing why. I’m about to take another sip when the door behind me opens, and I catch a trace of tantalizing cologne as Julian strides in.

Julian fills the room, all broad shoulders and apologetic smile.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, running a hand through his already-disheveled hair. “I had to rescue a cat from a tree on my way here. You know how it is around this town.”

For a split second, even while Wendy’s laughter fills the room, I actually think he’s being serious. And for another split second, I find myself picturing the heroic moment: muscles flexing as he steadies himself in one of the trees on Main Street, gently coaxing a scared cat into his strong, safe arms.

Jesus. What is wrong with me?

Julian slides into the chair next to me, and I catch another wave of his cologne. I’ve never found men’s cologne particularly noticeable, but whatever kind he’s wearing is having an almost spellbinding effect on me. Good God, he’s attractive. Sitting this close to him, I’m suddenly consumed by the strong line of his jaw, the teasing curve of his lips, the deep warm blue of his eyes.

It nearly paralyzes me, knowing this is the man I’ll be living next to for years to come.

“Here’s the final survey showing the property line,” Wendy says, spreading a document between us. “The walking path makes a natural boundary, but we’ve marked it clearly with permanent stakes.”

Julian leans forward to study the paper, and I try not to stare at the way his neck curves down to his strong shoulders, or how his t-shirt pulls across his back.

“You know, Shae,” he says, glancing at me over his shoulder, “we could save a lot of money if we just built one house and shared it.”

I know he’s just teasing, but my whole body flushes hot. I manage something between a laugh and a cough, which only makes my face burn hotter.

For the next hour, Wendy slides paper after paper in front of us for signatures. I keep my eyes fixed on the dotted lines, refusing to glance left where Julian sits, still radiating warmth and that maddening cologne.

Seven and a half acres , I remind myself. Plenty of space to pretend I don’t have a neighbor at all.