Mountain Man’s Secret Valentine (Date Night in the Mountains)
Chapter 1
Chapter one
Nathan
This is what I came here for.
Three years ago, I left the city behind.
I ditched the gridlock, the fluorescent buzz that never shut off, the constant press of people who wanted something from you every damn minute.
I sold the condo, the suits, the life that was slowly suffocating me, and bought this cabin sight unseen.
Drove until the highway turned to two-lane blacktop, then gravel, then a dirt track that barely showed on maps.
Best decision I ever made. No neighbors.
No notifications. Just silence, broken only by the occasional crack of branches under fresh snow or the low huff of my dog Bear’s breathing.
I wipe sweat from my brow with the back of my glove, even though the temperature’s hovering in the low twenties.
The burn in my shoulders is welcome. I stack the splits, inhaling the clean scent of pine resin mixed with woodsmoke from last night’s fire.
Bear sprawls on the porch steps, one ear flopped over, watching me like I’m the most boring show on earth.
“Keep staring,” I mutter. “You’re the one who sleeps through blizzards.”
He thumps his tail once against the frozen boards, unimpressed.
I’m reaching for another log when my phone buzzes in the pocket of my Carhartt coat. I ignore it. It buzzes again. Then again. Persistent as a woodpecker.
Only one person has that kind of stamina.
I dig it out, already scowling at the screen. Emily, my sister, also known as Little Terror —she’s the human equivalent of a snowball to the face—bright, unavoidable, and usually followed by chaos.
Little Terror: You’re welcome, big brother.
Little Terror: Surprise! I signed you up for Mountain Matches. You’ve got a match! Her name’s Katherine. Drinks tonight at The Rusty Pine. 7 pm. Don’t flake.
Attached is a screenshot of a profile. Dark curls spilling over shoulders, a smile that lights up the whole damn photo, curves that hit like a gut punch before I force my gaze away.
I type back fast.
Me: Delete the app. I’m not interested.
Little Terror: Too late. She said yes. One drink, Nate. Sixty minutes. You can handle people for an hour. I have faith.
Me: I don’t date. You know why.
Little Terror: You don’t date because you’re turning into a grizzly. One drink. If it sucks, crawl back to your cave. But if it doesn’t…
A string of heart-eyes emojis, then praying hands.
Little Terror: Please? I worry about you up there alone in the snow. It’s February, and cabin fever’s real.
Guilt. Her favorite weapon.
I stare at the screen, jaw clenched. Bear pads over, nudges my knee with his cold nose, like he smells the incoming surrender.
I could power off the phone. Pretend the texts never happened. Let the snow bury the whole thing.
But Emily’s voice is already echoing in my head, the soft, worried tone she used when we were kids, and she’d beg me to stay up late with her during thunderstorms. She’s the only one who still calls. The only family that didn’t let me vanish completely when I moved up here.
One drink.
I can survive one drink. Show up. Be civil. Leave early. Done.
Me: Fine. One. Then you delete the profile and never mention this again.
Little Terror: Deal! Wear something that doesn’t scream “hermit.” And smile. You’ve got a killer smile when you dust it off.
I snort. Killer smile. Sure.
I pocket the phone and finish the last logs, swinging harder than needed. The rhythmic thud drowns the irritation crawling under my skin. By the time the sun starts its early winter slide behind the ridge, around four thirty, the pile’s respectable, and I’m resigned.
Inside the cabin, the air’s thick with the smell of pine logs and this morning's coffee. Stone fireplace, leather couch from my city days, and my workbench in the corner, stacked with half-finished carvings, mostly of bears—the animal, not the dog. I built most of this place with my own hands. Every joist, every nail. It’s quiet and mine.
I take a quick shower, hot water hammering my back. Scrubbing off the sawdust and the sweat. I run a hand through my wet hair. In the steamed mirror, I look the part of a mountain man: broad, bearded, eyes shadowed from too many solitary nights. Rough around the edges.
I put on clean jeans, a black thermal Henley, and a thick, dark-green flannel shirt. Bear watches me lace up, head cocked.
“Don’t give me that look,” I tell him. “It’s not a date. I’m only going to get Emily off my back.”
He huffs, obviously not believing me.
The drive to town is twenty minutes of winding, snow-packed roads.
Even with chains on the tires, I drive slowly with my low beams cutting through the dusk.
The Rusty Pine squats at the edge of Main Street.
Its log exterior is covered in string lights twinkling against the early dark, smoke curling lazily from the chimney.
It’s the only bar around here that isn’t a tourist trap.
The patrons are mostly local, and there’s no drama.
I park, kill the engine, and sit for a minute gripping the wheel.
One drink.
I hop out of my truck, open the bar door, and step inside.
Warmth hits like a wall, with the smells of woodsmoke, fried food, and the low murmur of conversation under the hum of a hockey game on the TV. String lights loop the beams, casting gold across scarred tables.
I scan for an exit more than the face of the woman I’m supposed to be meeting. Then I see her.
She’s at a high-top by the window, back to me, but unmistakable from the photo.
Dark curls cascading down her back. Red sweater clinging to every generous curve.
Laughing at something her friend says. Her laughter is bright and open, the sound slicing clean through the bar noise and landing square in my chest.
My boots freeze to the floorboards.
She turns just enough for the light to catch her face. Her full lips are curved in a smile, cheeks pink from the heat or maybe her drink, green eyes sparkling like they hold summer inside them even in the dead of winter.
She’s vivid. Alive in a way that makes the quiet I’ve wrapped myself suddenly feel like not enough.
My pulse kicks hard, and it’s not just attraction—though hell, her curves alone could drop a man—but something deeper. A pull. Like my body recognizes her before my brain can argue.
I should turn around. Walk out before she spots me. Before I ruin whatever peace she’s got going.
But my feet move anyway.
She glances up as I approach, green eyes locking on mine. Surprise flashes into curiosity, then a warmth that makes the cold outside feel like a distant memory.
“Hi,” her friend says, voice light, a little breathless. “You must be Nathan?”
I nod, throat tight. “Yeah. Katherine?” I ask, looking at the gorgeous woman and not her friend.
“Katy,” she corrects, smile widening until it crinkles her eyes. “Friends call me Katy.”
Her friend grins like she’s won something, then stands fast. “Oh, look at the time! I just remembered I have… a thing. You two have fun!”
She’s out the door before we can blink, leaving me standing there feeling like an idiot in flannel.
Katy laughs softly. “Real subtle, huh?”
I rub the back of my neck. “Your friend set this up?”
“Yes, but I’m not sure exactly what this is.” She tilts her head, studying me without flinching. “You don’t look thrilled about it.”
“I’m not big on surprises.”
“Understood.” She pats the stool next to her. “But you’re here. Wanna sit and share a drink? No strings.”
I hesitate.
She waits, patient, her gorgeous smile steady.
Curiosity gets the better of me, or maybe it's the way looking at her feels like stepping out of a three-year freeze into unexpected sunlight.
I sit.
The bartender appears like magic, whiskey neat for me, another colorful cocktail for her. I don’t remember ordering.
Katy raises her glass. “To surprises!”
I tap mine against it, the clink sharp in the space between us.
“To getting through it,” I mutter.
She laughs again, and damn if the sound doesn’t settle something restless I didn’t know was pacing inside me.
One drink, I remind myself. Just one—quick and painless.
But as she leans in, asking so many questions about me and my life, I already know I’m full of shit. This isn’t going to be quick. And it sure as hell isn’t going to be painless.