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Tessa

There’s a reason I avoid flying whenever possible, but it’s not because I’m dramatic. Okay, maybe a little. But mostly, it’s because regional planes are terrifying, and this one, currently shaking like it’s about to split in half, is Exhibit A.

We dip suddenly, and I grip the armrest with white knuckles, praying softly to every deity I’ve ever heard of, plus a few I might’ve made up on the spot.

“Please let me live long enough to finish this story,” I whisper through gritted teeth.

The man beside me, a farmer by the looks of his overalls and the bucket of something chicken-scented resting between his boots, chuckles.

“She don’t bite,” he says in a lazy Southern drawl. “Just bounces a little.”

“She’s bouncing like she’s possessed.”

He shrugs. “Spring air.”

The plane lurches again, and I consider writing my obituary in the Notes app. Tessa Hart, 29. Died chasing viral thirst content. May she rest in pine-scented peace.

The flight attendant announces our descent like we haven’t already been nosediving for the past fifteen minutes. I glance at the little plane icon on my travel app, inching toward the dot that is Pine Hollow—a town so small it barely registers on the map, but it sure as hell registered on the internet.

@TheMenOfPineHollow

The Instagram account that launched a thousand fantasies. High-def, woodsy thirst traps of flannel-clad men chopping logs, hauling timber, and looking like they just stepped off the cover of a rugged romance novel.

There’s one in particular that haunts me. A man, shirt clinging wet to a broad chest, snow in his beard, eyes shadowed under a ball cap, standing in front of a log cabin like he’s just waiting for someone. I saved that one. Purely for research, of course.

When my editor, Brooke, called me into her office three days ago, she didn’t even say hello. Just shoved her phone into my hands and said, “Tessa. Find out who these men are. Interview them. Get the story before BuzzedUp or Modern Wilder does. Bonus points if one of them lets you chop wood with him.”

So here I am, trading city traffic for tree-lined roads, overpriced oat milk lattes for questionable diner coffee, and—hopefully—trading dry spell energy for a little hands-on, boots-on-the-ground lumberjack action.

For journalistic integrity, obviously.

The plane finally lands on what might be the shortest runway I’ve ever seen, flanked by pine trees, fog, and one very unimpressed deer.

I step out into the thick, humid air and instantly regret my outfit. Heeled ankle boots. Skinny jeans. A trench coat that screams New York fashion week instead of rural mountain realism. My suitcase, hot pink, hard-shell, and very out of place, clunks along behind me as I navigate the tiny gravel parking lot in search of my rental car.

Rick’s Rentals is more of a hand-painted sign on a shack than an actual business, but I grab the keys to a mud-splattered Subaru and follow my GPS into town.

Pine Hollow is adorable. Main Street has actual string lights. The general store is called “Dottie’s,” the café has a window full of cinnamon rolls, and I pass two pickup trucks with golden retrievers riding shotgun.

It’s also very quiet here. Still. Even the air has weight. Like, if you listened hard enough, you could hear the trees breathing.

I check into the Hollow Hearth Inn, the only one in town, which smells like cedarwood and lavender and might be haunted by a very sweet grandmother. There’s a handwritten card waiting in my room.

*Welcome, Tessa! - Dottie :) *

And cookies. Oatmeal. Still warm. Dottie might be a witch…or an angel.

After dropping my bags, I head into town, pulling up the Instagram account as I walk. The latest photo is tagged just outside of town: “Thirsty Thursday: Sawyer says hydrate or die-drate.”

Sawyer.

He’s the one from the photo. The one with the axe, the beard, the snow. My stomach does a little flip. The logical part of me says it’s from the bumpy flight and the fact that I haven’t eaten today. The other part? The one that has spent more time than necessary zooming in on a man’s forearms? Yeah. That part’s having a minor meltdown.

I find the café, Annie’s, by smell alone. The aroma of cinnamon, coffee, and vanilla pulls me in like a cartoon character floating on scent lines.

Inside, it’s bustling. Locals chatting over pie. A teenage couple sharing a milkshake. An older man in a flannel shirt is reading the paper like it’s the most riveting novel in the world.

As I step in, conversations dip. It doesn’t stop, just shifts. I’ve got that outsider energy, and they know it.

A woman behind the counter waves me over. She’s got a high ponytail, an apron dusted with flour, and a warm smile.

“You’re not from around here,” she says, pouring a cup of coffee without me even asking. “I’m guessing you’re the magazine gal.”

I blink. “How do you know who I am?”

She laughs. “Small town. Big gossip. Linda saw you step off the plane and called it in before you hit Main Street.”

I glance around. Sure enough, there’s a woman in a bold floral dress by the window whispering behind her hand and watching me like I might start handing out tabloids.

“I’m Tessa,” I say, accepting the coffee. “And yes. I’m working on a story.”

“Annie,” she says, sliding a cinnamon roll toward me. “On the house. Call it a welcome to Pine Hollow, home of the sexy men, special.”

I laugh. “You’re embracing the fame, huh?”

She shrugs. “We don’t get many headlines unless a bear breaks into the post office. This? This is fun.”

I pull up the Instagram account again and show her the latest photo. “This guy. Sawyer Holt. He’s the one who shows up the most. Is he real?”

Annie snorts. “Oh, he’s real, all right. Real grumpy. Real hot. Real hard to get a full sentence out of.”

“So a dream.”

She grins. “If your dream involves a man who growls more than he talks and prefers trees to people? Sure.”

My gaze lingers on the photo. There’s something about the way he stands. Like he’s carrying weight. Not just physically but emotionally. Like he’s holding back something big.

“Where can I find him?”

Annie leans in, lowers her voice like we’re sharing classified information. “He runs Holt Timber. Lives up on the mountain past Ridgeway Trail. Doesn’t come into town much. Except to buy supplies. Or threaten Dottie with bodily harm if she prints another one of his photos and tapes it to the bakery window.”

“That happened?”

Annie just winks.

I take another sip of coffee and glance outside. The sky’s gone heavy. Gray clouds are building like a mood shift.

“Thanks for the tips,” I say, standing. “Guess I’ll be heading into the woods tomorrow.”

Annie hands me a to-go cup and a warning smile. “Wear boots. And maybe some body armor.”

I step outside into the wind, which whips my hair into a frenzy, and glance down at my phone again.

Sawyer Holt. A man who lives without Wi-Fi, avoids people, and looks like a god who got lost in the mountains.