Mountain Man Daddy’s Curvy Date (Date Night In The Mountains #7)

Chapter 1 Mila

ONE

MILA

The mountains don’t care about your five-year plan.

They don’t care that I had a color-coded calendar, a vision board, and a boss who used phrases like “lean in” and “circle back” like he was getting paid per syllable.

They don’t care that I told myself I was fine after the breakup—fine enough to post a smiling photo with a latte and the caption New season, new me like a liar with great Wi-Fi.

The mountains only care about one thing:

Whether your tires are worthy.

Mine are not.

My SUV—affectionately named Darlene because she’s dramatic and unpredictable—slides a little as I creep along a winding road with a sign that reads:

WELCOME TO TIMBER CREEK

Population: Small

Drama: Medium

Hearts: Big

I stare at it through the windshield like it just challenged me to a duel.

“Okay,” I tell Darlene. “We can do this. We are capable. We are safe. We are—”

My phone pings from the passenger seat.

Mom: did you get there???

Mom: are you eating?

Mom: text me when you’re safe

Mom: M I L A

I don’t text back because if I do, she’ll call. If she calls, she’ll hear the tremor in my voice that says, Hi, I’ve driven three hours into a postcard and now I’m one snowflake away from becoming a cautionary tale.

Instead, I grip the steering wheel and focus on the view.

Timber Creek is the kind of place people describe as “charming” in a way that feels like a warning.

The town sits in a valley like it was placed there by someone trying to prove a point about cozy living.

Smoke curls from chimneys. Warm yellow light glows in the windows of little shops.

Pine trees tower like bodyguards. The whole place smells faintly of woodsmoke and cinnamon and the smugness of people who don’t have to parallel park.

A banner stretches across Main Street:

WINTER WEEKEND KICKOFF!

Hot Cocoa Bar! Ice Sculptures! Charity Raffle!

Of course Timber Creek throws a party for the weather that’s currently trying to murder me.

I follow the main road, passing a diner with a neon sign shaped like a pancake, a bookstore with a painted window display of snowmen reading romance novels, and a boutique that appears to sell nothing but plaid and optimism.

There are people out walking, bundled in hats and scarves like they weren’t aware it’s January and that the air hurts your face.

This is where I’m supposed to “reset.”

That’s what I told myself when I booked the trip. A month away from Charleston. A month away from my job, my friends’ pity, and my ex’s new girlfriend, who is apparently an influencer with perfect hair and a dog that has its own Instagram.

A month in the mountains to breathe, write, and remember what my life feels like when it isn’t being measured in deadlines and likes and whether I’m “wife material” because I enjoy dessert and have thighs that touch.

I pull into a parking spot in front of The Timber Creek Mercantile—a rustic building that looks like it’s been there since the invention of gossip. The bell above the door jingles when I step inside, and warm air hits me like a hug.

I pause.

The inside is everything you’d expect from a small-town shop: shelves stacked with local jam, hand-knit scarves, homemade candles, and a suspicious amount of carved wooden bears. There’s a basket of free candy by the register like they’re trying to lure me into a false sense of security.

Behind the counter is a woman in her sixties with silver hair piled in a messy bun and reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. She looks up from a crossword puzzle and smiles like she knows my middle name.

“Well,” she says, dragging the word out like taffy. “You must be the new one.”

I blink. “The… new one?”

“Honey, we haven’t had anyone new in Timber Creek since Brad Holloway got veneers. And that was a whole thing.” Her gaze flicks over my coat, my boots, my cheeks pink from cold. “You got city written all over you.”

“I’m Mila.” I lift a hand like I’m introducing myself at an awkward work mixer. “I’m renting the… uh… Bluebird cabin? For a month?”

Her eyes light up. “Oh! You’re Ruthie’s guest.”

“Ruthie?”

“Ruthie Bluebird.” She says it like it should make sense. “Cabin’s named after her, too. She built it with her husband back when folks still used horses for errands. You must be the writer.”

My stomach tightens. “How did you—”

“Because nobody comes to Timber Creek for fun unless they’re escaping something or chasing someone.” She smiles sweetly. “And Ruthie told me. She tells me everything.”

Of course she does.

I offer a polite smile that probably looks more like I’m trying not to panic. “I’m not escaping. I’m just… taking a break.”

“That’s what escaping looks like, sweetheart.” She slides a key across the counter with a little tag that says BLUEBIRD CABIN in cheerful letters. “I’m June, by the way.”

“Mila,” I repeat, because apparently my brain is a goldfish today.

June leans forward. “Now, you listen to me. That cabin road gets slick after dark. The mountain doesn’t care how confident you feel. If you get in trouble, you call Haven 7.”

“Haven… seven?” I ask.

June points toward a bulletin board covered in flyers. One of them has a bold title:

HAVEN 7 MOUNTAIN RESCUE — Wedding Cake Mountain Station

Need help? Call. Don’t be stubborn.

There’s a photo beneath it—three rugged men in rescue gear standing in front of a snow-covered building. They look like they wrestle blizzards for cardio. The middle one has his arms crossed, his jaw set like he’s personally offended by the camera.

Something in my chest does a small, ridiculous flip.

I clear my throat and look away like I didn’t just react to a piece of paper. “Are they… like… park rangers?”

June laughs. “Oh, honey. No. They’re the ones you call when the park rangers call them.”

My nerves spike. “Is it dangerous?”

“It’s the mountains.” June shrugs, like that explains everything. “Some folks don’t respect ‘em. Some folks think they’re invincible. And some folks just get unlucky.”

She eyes me meaningfully.

I straighten. “I’m not going to do anything reckless.”

June’s smile turns knowing. “That’s what they all say right before they try to take a ‘quick scenic drive’ and end up calling Haven 7 because their tire chain fell off and slapped them in the face.”

Heat crawls up my neck. “I bought chains.”

“Did you put ’em on?”

“…No.”

June hums like she’s not surprised. “Well. If you need help, you come back. Brad Holloway owes me a favor and he likes to feel useful.”

I take the key. “Thank you.”

June’s eyes soften. “Welcome to Timber Creek, Mila. We take care of our own around here.”

My throat tightens unexpectedly. I nod and pretend it’s the dry air making my eyes sting.

Outside, snow has started to fall again—light, lazy flakes that look harmless. Which is how I know they’re lying.

I climb back into Darlene, punch the cabin address into my phone, and start driving.

The road out of town narrows fast, turning from charming to you’re definitely about to star in a horror movie. Trees close in on both sides. The sky darkens like someone dimmed a light switch.

The navigation app chirps cheerfully: In 2.3 miles, turn right.

I swallow. “Okay. Easy.”

The right turn appears and it’s less “road” and more “suggestion.” A narrow lane disappears into the woods with a small sign that says:

BLUEBIRD CABIN — 1.1 miles

I hesitate.

Darlene idles like she’s also unsure about our life choices.

Then my phone pings again—my mom, of course—and the sound snaps me into motion. I turn onto the lane.

The snow is thicker here. The trees block the last of the daylight. My headlights carve tunnels through swirling flakes.

I keep going, heart tapping harder with every curve.

Half a mile in, the road tilts upward. My tires crunch, then slip.

Darlene fishtails.

“NOPE.” I grip the wheel. “Nope, nope, nope—”

The SUV slides toward the edge of the road where there’s a steep drop into the woods. My stomach launches into my throat.

I overcorrect.

Darlene lurches.

There’s a horrifying thunk under the car, and then…

Nothing.

The engine whines. The tires spin uselessly.

I blink, breathing fast. “Okay. Okay, that’s fine. We’re fine.”

I put it in reverse.

The tires spin again, spraying snow.

I put it in drive.

More spinning.

I stare at the steering wheel, then at the snowy darkness ahead. “Darlene… sweetheart. Don’t do this to me.”

Darlene does not care about my feelings.

I grab my phone and immediately lose one bar of service.

Of course.

I try calling the cabin owner—Ruthie.

Straight to voicemail.

I try calling my mom out of sheer panic, then stop myself because she will drive here herself, and I do not need my mother meeting me in the mountains with a thermos and a list of my childhood mistakes.

I stare through the windshield, watching snow thicken.

The quiet here is… loud. Like the world is holding its breath.

I think about June’s bulletin board.

Call Haven 7. Don’t be stubborn.

I am not stubborn.

I’m just… independent. Self-sufficient. A woman who can carry her own groceries and open her own jars with a rubber grip and a dream.

But currently, my dream is very stuck.

I scroll until I find the number on the flyer photo I snapped inside the Mercantile—because yes, I did that, because I am secretly anxious and also organized.

I tap call.

It rings once, then twice, then—

“Haven 7 Mountain Rescue.”

The voice is low, steady, all business. Like the person attached to it has held calm in his hands and refuses to drop it.

I exhale shakily. “Hi. Um. My name is Mila. I’m on Bluebird cabin road and I—”

“Are you injured?”

“No.”

“Is anyone with you?”

“No.”

“Vehicle?”

“An SUV. Sort of. It’s… stuck.”

There’s a pause. I hear faint radio chatter in the background. Wind. Movement.

“Location marker?”

I look around wildly. “I—there’s a tree? And more trees?”

Another pause, like he’s fighting the urge to sigh.

“Do you see a numbered post?”

I crane my neck, peering out the window. Snow blows sideways. But then—there. A small reflective marker half-buried in snow.

“Post 14!” I say triumphantly like I just won a game show.

“Stay in the vehicle. Turn your hazards on if you can. We’re on our way.”

My chest loosens slightly. “Okay. Thank you. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Ma’am,” he interrupts, softer now, “you did the right thing by calling.”

I swallow. “Okay.”

The line clicks dead.

I set the phone down and flip my hazards on. The orange lights blink in the darkness, like a heartbeat.

I wait.

Minutes pass. Snow thickens. My nerves spike again.

Then—far off, a pair of headlights appears, cutting through the trees.

Relief hits so hard it almost makes me cry, which is rude because I am trying to be a composed adult woman and not a marshmallow with mascara.

The vehicle draws closer—big, rugged, built for weather that laughs at my coat. It pulls in behind Darlene with practiced ease.

A door opens.

A man steps out.

And listen—I’m not dramatic. I’m actually very grounded as a person. I have a skincare routine. I pay my bills on time.

But the universe is out here throwing men at me like it wants to test my sanity.

He’s tall. Broad-shouldered. The kind of build that looks carved by hard work and cold air. He wears a dark rescue jacket with reflective stripes, gloves, a beanie pulled low over dark hair. Snow catches on his lashes like he’s part of the storm.

He walks toward my window like he owns the mountain.

I roll it down an inch, letting cold air slice in.

“Hi,” I say, trying for casual and landing somewhere around panicked chipmunk.

He leans down slightly, and his eyes lock onto mine.

They’re a clear, striking blue—sharp enough to cut through my nerves, warm enough to make my stomach forget its job.

His gaze drops—quickly, politely—taking in my face, my posture, my shaky hands. Assessing.

Then he says, in the same steady tone from the phone, “You Mila?”

I nod. “Yes.”

He’s quiet for a beat. And in that beat, something shifts—like he’s noticing me now, not just the situation. Like he’s registering that I’m a real person and not a rescue report.

His jaw flexes once.

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s get you out of here.”

I try to smile. “Thank you. I’m really sorry. I didn’t—”

“You’re not the first to think this road is friendly.” His mouth twitches—almost a smile, like he’s not used to doing it. “It’s not.”

I laugh nervously. “Yeah. I’ve gathered.”

He reaches up and taps the edge of my hood lightly. Snow falls onto my windshield.

“Do you have chains?”

“Yes,” I say quickly. “In the trunk.”

“Have you ever put them on before?”

I pause. “In theory.”

His eyes narrow—amused now, I think. “In theory,” he repeats, like it’s a flavor he’s never tried.

“Look,” I say, defensive, “I watched a YouTube video.”

“That right?”

“It was very informative.”

He makes a sound that might be a chuckle if he weren’t so… controlled.

Then he glances at the dashboard, at the little air freshener shaped like a cupcake swinging from my mirror, and something in his expression softens just slightly.

He straightens, snow dusting his shoulders. “Pop the trunk.”

I do, fumbling with the button.

He steps back, and for a second, the headlights catch his profile—strong nose, trimmed beard, a small scar cutting through his eyebrow like punctuation. The kind of face romance novels try to describe and fail.

I blurt, “So… you work for Haven 7?”

He looks at me again, and there’s something in his eyes—something like a warning and a promise wrapped together. “Yeah,” he says. “Name’s Beau.”

Beau.

Of course it is.

Because my life is apparently a romantic comedy now, and the mountains just handed me the leading man in rescue gear.

He tilts his head. “You’re headed to Bluebird cabin?”

“Yes.”

His gaze holds mine a second too long, like the snow isn’t the only thing falling around here.

Then he says, “That so?”

“Yes.” I swallow. “Why?”

His mouth twitches again, and this time it’s definitely a smile—brief, reluctant, devastating. “Because,” he says, voice low, “that cabin’s on my route.”

My heart does something stupid.

And then, like the universe wants to make sure I’m fully humbled, my stomach growls—loudly—right in the cold quiet between us.

Beau’s eyebrow lifts.

I close my eyes. “I’m just… very brave,” I whisper.

And Beau Wilder—mountain rescue man, storm-proof, apparently unamused by the laws of nature—lets out a quiet laugh that warms the air more than the heater ever could.

“Yeah,” he says. “I can tell.”