Page 2 of Ignited By the Mountain Man (Fall for a Mountain Man #2)

SILAS

Ishould have been socializing.

The guys were all clustered together near the beer cooler, shooting the shit about work and weekend plans and which of the visiting vendors they thought were single. Normal bonfire conversation. The kind I usually joined without thinking twice about it.

Instead, I found myself making another circuit around the fire, adjusting logs that didn't need adjusting and checking burn patterns that were already perfect. All so I could keep an eye on her.

Keely was working the crowd like a pro, notebook in one hand, camera in the other, but I could see she was struggling.

People were polite enough, but there was a wariness to their responses.

Wildwood Valley folks didn't love outsiders asking questions, even friendly ones with press badges and pretty smiles.

She'd been at it for over an hour, getting surface-level answers and forced grins. Nothing that would make for the kind of authentic article she was clearly hoping to write.

Time to fix that.

I caught Tommy Anderson’s eye and jerked my head toward Keely. Tommy was a third-generation local who worked at the lumber mill and had about a million stories about this town and zero filter when it came to sharing them. If anyone could give her the real scoop, it was him.

"Tommy," I called out as he wandered past with a beer. "You meet the journalist yet? She's writing about our fall traditions."

His weathered face lit up. "No kidding? Well, hell, I got stories for days about this place." He was already heading in her direction before I finished talking.

Five minutes later, I watched Keely's whole posture change as Tommy launched into what was clearly a much more animated conversation than she'd been having all night. Her recorder was out, and that professional smile had been replaced by genuine interest.

Good. That was good.

"You playing matchmaker now, Silas?"

I turned to find my buddy Marc grinning at me, beer in hand and knowing look on his face.

"Just helping out a visitor," I said, grabbing a long stick to poke at a log that was burning perfectly fine. "She's trying to do her job."

"Uh-huh." Marc's grin widened. "And the fact that you've been circling this fire like a guard dog for the past hour has nothing to do with said visitor being a gorgeous redhead?"

"I'm tending the fire."

"Fire's been tending itself for the last forty-five minutes, brother."

He wasn't wrong. The thing was burning like a dream now, barely needing supervision. But admitting that meant admitting I was looking for excuses to stay close to Keely, and I wasn't quite ready for that conversation.

"Just being thorough," I muttered.

Marc laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. "Well, keep being thorough. But maybe consider actually talking to the woman instead of stalking her from across a bonfire."

He wandered back toward the guys, leaving me alone with my thoughts and my perfectly maintained fire.

The truth was, I couldn't get her out of my head.

The way she'd looked when she realized she'd messed up my kindling pile—genuinely upset, not just going through the motions of an apology.

The concentration on her face as I taught her to build the fire.

How natural it had felt, working together like that.

And the way she'd felt as we positioned that last log. Warm and soft and fitting against me like she belonged there.

It was all absurd. I'd known her for all of three hours, most of which she'd spent talking to other people.

I spotted Mrs. Upchurch approaching Keely next—Tommy must have made introductions—and felt a satisfied warmth that had nothing to do with the fire.

Mrs. Upchurch had lived here longer than anyone and would remember when this bonfire tradition started back in the eighties.

If Keely wanted authentic local color, she'd hit the jackpot.

The rumor mill would definitely be churning by tomorrow.

No way word wouldn't get back to Bobbi that I'd been personally arranging interviews for the pretty journalist. Bobbi had matched up half the couples in this town and had been not-so-subtly hinting that it was my turn to "find someone special. "

My give-a-damn about the gossip was completely busted. Let them talk. At worst, Bobbi would find some excuse to keep Keely in town longer, and I wouldn't be opposed to that. Not even a little bit.

A burst of laughter from the far side of the fire caught my attention. Some of the teenagers had commandeered a section near the parking area and turned it into an impromptu s'mores station. Marshmallows on sticks, chocolate bars, graham crackers—the works.

And Keely was over there now, talking to a couple of the high school kids while they roasted marshmallows. She'd moved away from the main crowd, probably trying to get a different perspective for her article.

This was my chance.

I grabbed one of the roasting sticks and speared a marshmallow, holding it over the flames until it was perfectly golden. Not burned black like most people did it, but that perfect caramelized brown that took patience to achieve.

By the time I made it over to where Keely was standing, she'd finished with the teenagers and was alone, typing notes into her phone with one thumb while balancing her camera with the other hand.

"Thought you might want to try the local specialty," I said, offering her the stick.

She looked up, startled, then smiled when she saw the marshmallow. "Is this a peace offering for the kindling incident?"

"Call it a cultural experience. You can't write about a mountain bonfire without sampling the s'mores."

"I don't actually have any graham crackers or chocolate," she pointed out, but she took the stick anyway.

"Pure marshmallow is underrated. Most people rush it, burn the outside, leave the inside cold. But when you do it right…” I watched her take a careful bite, the golden exterior giving way to perfectly melted interior. "Yeah, like that."

Her eyes widened. "Oh my God, that's amazing. How did you get it so perfect?"

"Same principle as the fire. Patience and the right technique." I found myself stepping closer, drawn by the genuine delight on her face. "Most people would rather have instant gratification than wait for something better."

"I'm definitely not most people." She took another bite, making a soft sound of appreciation that did things to my insides. "This is going in the article for sure. 'Local mountain man elevates simple marshmallow to art form.'"

"Mountain man?"

"You object to the terminology?"

I considered that. "Depends on the context, I guess. Makes me sound like I live in a cave and hunt my dinner with a sharp stick."

"Do you?"

"Hunt with a sharp stick? No. Live in a cave…” I grinned. "Define cave."

She laughed, and the sound hit me square in the chest. "Okay, now I'm intrigued. What's your actual living situation? For the article.”

That last part was added quickly. But there was something in her eyes that suggested the question was more personal than professional.

"I've got a cabin about ten minutes from here. Built most of it myself, with some help from the guys." I gestured toward where Marc and the others were still hanging out by the beer cooler. "It's not fancy, but it's mine."

"You built it yourself? Like, actually built it?"

"Foundation, framing, roofing, the works. Took me the better part of two years, working weekends and evenings." I found myself wanting to tell her more, to see that interested look stay on her face. "There's a workshop attached where I do custom furniture, some contracting work."

"That's incredible." She was looking at me like I'd just told her I'd built a rocket ship. "I can barely hang a picture frame straight."

"Different skill sets. You can talk to strangers all day and get them to open up. That's not exactly common either."

"True." She finished the marshmallow and handed me back the stick. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to show me this cabin sometime? It sounds like exactly the kind of authentic mountain lifestyle detail my readers would eat up."

The question caught me off guard. I'd been working up to asking if she wanted to see the place tomorrow, maybe over coffee or lunch. Something planned and civilized.

"When were you thinking?" I asked carefully.

She glanced around at the bonfire, which was still going strong but had definitely hit its peak energy. People were starting to pack up, teenagers were getting called home by parents, and the volunteers were beginning the subtle process of winding things down.

"Well…” She bit her lower lip, and I had to force myself to focus on her words instead of that gesture.

"I don't suppose you'd be up for giving me a tour tonight?

I know it's late, but I'm kind of a night owl, and honestly, I'm too wired from all this to go back to my room at the inn and stare at the ceiling. "

Tonight. She wanted to come to my place tonight.

Every rational part of my brain was pointing out all the reasons that was a bad idea. We'd just met. She was here for work. I didn't know anything about her beyond the fact that she could destroy a kindling pile and learn to build a fire and make my pulse race just by smiling.

"My workshop has better lighting than this," I heard myself saying. "Easier to get good photos for your article."

"Perfect." She was already reaching for her camera bag. "I promise I won't take up too much of your time. I just want to capture the real story, you know? The person behind the community pillar."

Community pillar. Right. This was for her article.

So why did it feel like so much more than that?

"Let me just tell the guys I'm heading out," I said. "You can follow me in your car."

"Actually, I walked over from the inn. It wasn't that far, and I wanted to experience the whole small-town festival atmosphere."

Of course, she had. Which meant she'd need a ride back to town after we were done, which meant more time together, which meant…

I was in so much trouble.

"No problem," I said, like my heart wasn't suddenly racing at the thought of having her in my truck, in my space, seeing the life I'd built here. "Ready when you are."

As we walked toward my truck, leaving the dying bonfire and the last stragglers behind, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was about to cross a line I couldn't uncross.

And for the first time in three years, I was looking forward to it.