Page 7 of Hunted by the Mountain Man (Grizzly Ridge: Protectors #5)

NOVA

I wake to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar windows and the distant sound of chopping wood.

For a moment, I'm disoriented, my mind still clouded with sleep. Then it all comes rushing back. The stalker. The blood on my mirror. Finn McKenna arriving to whisk me away to safety. Montana. The cabin.

Finn.

I stretch beneath the luxurious weight of handmade quilts, surprised by how well I slept. No nightmares. No waking at every sound, convinced someone was watching me. For the first time in months, I felt safe enough to truly rest.

All because of the man currently making rhythmic chopping sounds outside my window.

I slip out of bed and pad to the window, peering out at the clearing behind the cabin.

And there he is, Finn McKenna in all his mountain man glory, splitting logs with an ax that looks like it weighs as much as my suitcase.

He's shirtless despite the morning chill, his upper body a landscape of muscle and scars that tells stories I'm suddenly desperate to hear.

The fluid power of his movements is mesmerizing. Lift, swing, split. Lift, swing, split. No wasted motion, no hesitation. Just pure controlled strength channeled into a single purpose.

It's possibly the most masculine thing I've ever seen, and I've spent my career surrounded by men who make their living selling an image of masculinity.

But there's nothing manufactured about Finn. Nothing calculated or designed for maximum appeal. He simply is what he is. Authentic in a way that makes every man I've ever known seem like a pale imitation.

I realize I'm staring and step back from the window with heat rise to my cheeks. This is not how I should be thinking about the man I've hired to protect me. The man whose job is to keep me alive, not to star in the inappropriate fantasies currently running through my mind.

But there's something about Finn McKenna that gets under my skin in a way no one else ever has. Something that makes me wonder what those strong hands would feel like against my body instead of wrapped around an ax handle.

"Get it together, Nova," I mutter to myself, turning away from the window. "He's your bodyguard, not your romance novel fantasy."

Except he's exactly my romance novel fantasy, which is the problem. The strong, silent protector. The dangerous man with a code of honor. The reluctant hero who sees the real woman beneath the celebrity facade.

Every trope I've secretly loved since I was thirteen stealing my mother's paperbacks to read under the covers with a flashlight.

I need to focus on reality, not fantasy. The reality is that I'm in danger. That someone wants to hurt me. That Finn McKenna is a professional doing a job he's being paid very well to do.

That I'm just another client.

I shower quickly in the attached bathroom, appreciating the luxury of the rainfall showerhead and the expensive toiletries that seem at odds with Finn's rugged exterior. Another reminder that he's more complex than he appears.

After drying off, I dress in jeans and a soft henley, clothes chosen for comfort rather than style. It's strangely liberating not having to consider paparazzi angles or brand partnerships or what message my outfit is sending to my fans.

Here, I'm just a woman getting dressed. Not a billboard. Not a brand. Just Nova.

When I make my way downstairs, I find the main room empty but coffee already made, a mug set out beside the pot. A small gesture that shouldn't make my heart skip, but does.

I pour myself coffee and move to the french doors that lead to the deck, watching as Finn continues his wood chopping ritual.

From this angle, I can see more of the scars that mark his body.

A puckered circle on his left shoulder that can only be a bullet wound.

A long, jagged line across his right ribs.

Smaller marks scattered across his back like constellations.

Maps of violence and survival etched into skin.

He turns suddenly, as if sensing my presence, and our eyes lock through the glass. Neither of us moves for a long moment. Then he nods once, acknowledging me, and sets down the ax.

I push open the door and step onto the deck, coffee mug clutched between my hands like a shield.

"Morning," he says, reaching for a shirt that hangs from a nearby fence post. I try not to feel disappointed as he pulls it over his head, covering the topography of muscle and scar tissue I'd been admiring.

"Morning." I take a sip of coffee to hide my suddenly dry throat. "You've been up a while."

"I’m always up with the sun." He gathers several split logs into his arms. "Sleep well?"

"Better than I have in months, actually."

Something like satisfaction flickers across his face. "Good. The security system does its job."

"I think it might be more the man running the security system," I say before I can stop myself.

His eyes meet mine, and for a moment I see something there that makes my pulse quicken. Something heated and intent that has nothing to do with professional obligation.

Then it's gone, shuttered behind the cool blue of his professional gaze.

"I'm going to stack these," he says, nodding toward the woodpile. "Breakfast in twenty?"

"Sounds good. Need help?"

"I've got it."

He turns and walks away, leaving me with the distinct impression that he's retreating from more than just the conversation.

Back inside, I explore the kitchen, finding everything I need to make breakfast. By the time Finn returns, I've got bacon sizzling in a cast iron skillet and eggs ready to cook.

"You didn't have to do that," he says, washing his hands at the sink.

"I wanted to." I flip the bacon. "Contrary to what the tabloids might say, I actually know my way around a kitchen."

"The tabloids say otherwise?"

"The tabloids say a lot of things. That I'm a diva who requires only imported sparkling water and activated charcoal smoothies.

That I have a personal chef who prepares all my meals according to my blood type and moon phase.

" I roll my eyes. "Apparently cooking your own breakfast is very off brand for a pop star. "

He leans against the counter, watching me work. "What is on brand for you in the public eye?"

"Being mysterious. Unattainable. Sexually empowered but never actually seen dating anyone seriously. Strong female role model but also vulnerable enough that teenage girls identify with my struggles." I crack eggs into the pan. "It's a very specific tightrope to walk."

"Sounds exhausting."

"It is." I focus on the eggs, not meeting his eyes. "Hence my recurring dream of just making everything stop. To walk away from all of it. Be nobody for a while."

"You could never be nobody," he says, and something in his tone makes me look up. He's watching me with an intensity that steals my breath. "No matter where you went or what you did."

"Because I'm too recognizable?"

"Because you're you."

The simple statement hits me harder than it should. As if he sees something essential in me outside of the fame or success or carefully cultivated image.

"You don't even know me," I say quietly.

"I know enough."

We fall into silence as I finish cooking, plates the food, and set it on the table. We eat without speaking, but it's not uncomfortable. There's something peaceful about sharing a meal without the pressure of conversation, without the need to perform or entertain.

"What's the plan for today?" I ask finally, as we finish eating.

"You need to learn the property. Security measures, escape routes, safe rooms. Standard protocol for high risk clients."

"High risk." I repeat the words, tasting their reality. "Sometimes I still can't believe this is happening. That someone hates me enough to want to hurt me."

"It's not about hate," Finn says, his voice gentler than I've heard it. "Most stalkers are motivated by obsession, not hatred. In their minds, they love you. They believe they have a special connection with you that no one else understands."

"That's worse somehow."

"Yes."

I push my plate away, appetite suddenly gone. "How do people live like this? Knowing someone is out there, watching, and waiting."

"Most don't have to." Finn stands and takes our plates to the sink. "Most people are blessedly anonymous."

"But not me."

"No. Not you."

There's no judgment in his voice, no implied criticism of my career choices or lifestyle. Just acknowledgment of reality.

"I never thought about the downside," I admit. "When I was fifteen and someone offered me a record deal, all I could think about was getting out of Elbe, seeing the world, doing what I loved. No one mentioned the possibility of stalkers writing messages in blood on my mirror."

"Would it have changed anything? If they had?"

I consider the question, trying to imagine my fifteen year old self faced with all the realities of fame. The loss of privacy. The constant scrutiny. The isolation. The danger.

"Probably not," I admit. "I was young and hungry and certain I was invincible. Now I know better."

He nods, understanding in his eyes. "Get your boots on. We've got a lot of ground to cover."

The next few hours blur together as Finn takes me on a comprehensive tour of his property. Twenty acres of mountain and forest, all of it secured with a system so sophisticated it makes my Hollywood security look like child's play.

He shows me the emergency bunker built into the hillside, stocked with enough supplies to last months.

The hidden caches of weapons and emergency kits scattered throughout the property.

The tunnels that lead from the basement to exit points a quarter mile from the cabin in three different directions.

"You built all this?" I ask as we emerge from one of the tunnels, blinking in the sudden sunlight.

"Most of it. My brothers helped with the heavy lifting."

"This is..." I struggle to find the right word. "Extensive."

"I like to be prepared."

"For what? Nuclear winter?"

He shrugs. "You never know."