Page 5 of Hunted by the Mountain Man (Grizzly Ridge: Protectors #5)

FINN

I 've brought a pop star to my mountain.

The thought hits me as I watch Nova Wilde step into my cabin, her eyes wide as she takes in the space I've carved out for myself. This place has never held anyone but me and occasionally my brothers. It's my sanctuary, my fortress, the one place in the world where I'm completely in control.

And now she's here, filling it with her presence in a way I wasn't prepared for.

"This is..." She trails off, turning in a slow circle to take in the main room. "Not what I expected."

"What were you expecting?" I set our bags down by the stairs, watching her reaction.

"I don't know. Gun racks on the walls? Tactical gear everywhere? Definitely not this."

I follow her gaze around the room. I built most of it myself over the past two years.

A massive stone fireplace anchors the far wall.

Hand-hewn timber beams support the vaulted ceiling.

Built-in bookshelves are filled with well-worn volumes.

The kitchen has soapstone counters and professional-grade appliances.

It's rustic but comfortable. Masculine but not Spartan. I worked hard to make it a home, and not just a safehouse.

"Disappointed?" I ask.

"The opposite." She moves to the windows that face the mountain view, wrapping her arms around herself. "It's beautiful, Finn. Like something out of a magazine."

I don't tell her that Better Homes and Gardens actually did feature it last year, part of a spread on luxury mountain retreats. My brothers gave me endless shit about it, but the money helped fund my security system.

"Make yourself comfortable," I say, moving to check the perimeter sensors on my security tablet. "Your room will be upstairs, first door on the right. The bathroom is connected. Everything should be stocked, but let me know if you need anything."

She turns from the window, studying me. "Do you ever stop being on duty?"

"No."

"That sounds exhausting."

"It's just how I'm wired." I tap through the security feeds, confirming that the property is secure. Motion sensors, cameras, and heat detection. Anyone approaching within a mile triggers multiple alerts.

"Military habits?"

"Something like that." I don't elaborate. My CIA years aren't something I discuss, even with clients. Especially with clients.

"Well, thank you." She gestures around. "For sharing your home. I know this can't be what you planned when you built your mountain sanctuary."

She's more perceptive than I expected. Most people, especially celebrities, tend to assume the world exists to accommodate them. Nova seems genuinely aware that her presence here is an intrusion.

"It's temporary," I say, which isn't really an answer.

"Still. I appreciate it."

I nod, not trusting myself to say more. There's something about her gratitude that makes me uncomfortable. I'm being paid an obscene amount of money to protect her. She doesn't owe me thanks on top of that.

"You must be hungry," I say, changing the subject. "I'll make something."

"You cook?" There's surprise in her voice.

"I live alone on a mountain. Takeout isn't exactly an option."

That draws a small smile from her. "Fair point. Can I help?"

"You cook?" I echo her surprise.

"I live alone in Hollywood. Takeout is always an option, but sometimes I like to remember I'm capable of basic human skills."

There's something in her tone. A defensiveness that makes me think there's more to the story. Something about cooking that matters to her.

"Sure," I say. "You can help."

I move into the kitchen, opening the massive refrigerator that's always stocked with staples.

One of the perks of having a brother who's married to a woman who worries I'll starve alone on my mountain.

Harper comes by once a week to stock my fridge, even though I've told her repeatedly that I'm perfectly capable of feeding myself.

"Looks like we've got everything for pasta," I say, pulling out ingredients. "That work for you?"

"Perfect." She joins me in the kitchen, washing her hands at the sink. "What can I do?"

"Chop these." I set the vegetables on the cutting board. "Knife's in the block."

She nods and selects a chef's knife, testing its weight in her hand with the ease of someone who knows what they're doing. "Nice balance."

"My brother Cade makes them. It was a housewarming gift."

"Your brother makes knives?" She begins slicing tomatoes.

"Among other things. He's good with his hands."

"Seems like a family trait."

I'm not sure if she's flirting or just making conversation, but something about her casual presence in my kitchen is unsettling. Domestic in a way that feels dangerously comfortable.

"McKenna men build things," I say, setting a pot of water on the stove to boil. "It's what we do when we're not protecting people."

"And what do you build, Finn?"

"Whatever needs building."

She glances at me, clearly hearing the evasion in my voice. But she doesn't push. Instead, she continues chopping with the kind of focus I appreciate. No wasted movements, no unnecessary conversation. Just the task at hand.

We work in companionable silence for a few minutes. I prepare the sauce while she handles the vegetables. It's a surprisingly comfortable rhythm, as if we've done this before.

"This is nice," she says after a while. "Normal."

"Cooking pasta is normal?"

"Being a person is normal." She slides the chopped vegetables into the bowl I've set out. "Not being Nova Wilde, pop sensation, just being a woman in a kitchen making dinner."

I study her profile, catching something in her expression I hadn't seen before. A longing for simplicity that I understand better than she might expect.

"Is it hard? Being Nova Wilde?"

She laughs, but there's little humor in it. "You have no idea. Sometimes I feel like I created a monster that's slowly consuming me. Like there's less and less of the real me left every year."

"The real you, huh?” I ask, not really expecting a response. “What matters most to you?" I ask suddenly, surprising myself with the directness of the question.

She glances up, clearly caught off guard. "What do you mean?"

"In life. What do you value above everything else?" I keep my focus on the pasta, giving her space to consider the question without the weight of my gaze. "What principles guide Nova Wilde when no one's watching?"

She's quiet for a long moment, and I worry I've overstepped. But when I look up, she's not offended or retreating. She's thinking, really considering the question as if no one has asked her something so fundamental in a very long time.

"Authenticity," she says finally. "Being true to myself, even when it's hard.

Even when it would be easier to be what everyone expects.

" She traces patterns on the countertop with her fingertip.

"My grandfather used to say that at the end of your life, the only opinion that matters is whether you can look in the mirror and recognize the person staring back. "

I nod, understanding the weight of those words more than she might expect. "Smart man."

"He was." Her smile holds both sadness and warmth. "What about you? What does Finn McKenna value most?"

I consider deflecting, giving some professional answer about security or preparedness. But something about the genuine way she answered deserves equal honesty from me.

"Integrity," I say as I drain the pasta. "Doing what's right even when no one would know if you didn't. Standing by your word, even when it costs you." I pause, measuring my next words carefully. "And protection. Not just physical safety, but... guarding what matters. People. Principles. Places."

"Is that why you built this fortress on a mountain? To protect what matters to you?"

Her perception is unsettling. Most people see the security systems, the isolation, and assume I'm hiding from something. Few recognize I'm actually preserving something.

"Can I ask you something a little personal?" she says, leaning against the counter.

"You can ask."

"Why did you leave the CIA? You were at the top of your field."

I measure my response carefully. "I was good at what I did. Too good, maybe. It changes you after a while, living in that world. I started to forget who I was outside of the job."

I realize as the words leave my mouth that I've just described exactly what she said about herself. Her eyes widen slightly, recognizing it too.

"So you came home," she says.

"I came home."

The simple truth sits with us for a bit. We're more alike than either of us expected. Both of us lost in the identities we've created, both seeking something real to hold onto.

"Do you regret it?" she asks. "Leaving?"

"No." The answer comes without hesitation. "I miss the adrenaline sometimes. The clarity of purpose. But I don't miss what it was turning me into."

She nods, understanding in her eyes. "That's why I've been thinking about taking a break. From all of it. The tours, the albums, the acting. Just... stop for a while and remember who I am when no one's watching."

"And who is that?"

"I wish I knew." She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Maybe that girl who spent summers with her grandfather in the woods. Maybe someone else entirely."

I drain the pasta, thinking about her revelation. A celebrity at the height of her career, contemplating walking away from it all. It's not what I expected from the woman whose face launches a thousand magazine covers.

"What would you do?" I ask. "If you took that break?"

"I don't know. Travel somewhere no one recognizes me. Read books that aren't scripts. Learn to make furniture, garden, or something real with my hands." She looks around my cabin. "Maybe build a life more like this. Something authentic."

"Authentic is overrated," I say, surprising myself with the honesty. "It comes with its own complications."

"Like what?"

"Isolation. Too much time in your own head. Nowhere to hide from yourself."

She studies me with those too perceptive eyes. "Is that why you take jobs like this? To escape the isolation?"