Page 13 of Making a Mountain Man (Summer in the Pines #16)

Jill

J ust as I managed to get my heart out of my throat, my cell rang.

Anthony.

“What?” I held the phone between my shoulder and my ear as I started setting up my notes and laptop at Wesley’s kitchen table.

“I just had an interesting meeting with Heather.”

“Yeah, I know. Don’t touch the cock guy story.”

He scoffed. “Artistic freedom. Freedom of speech. The less you want me on this story, the more I think I’m going to dig up something good.”

I really didn’t have the patience for this. I shifted the phone to my other ear as I opened my laptop and hit the power button. “No conspiracy, take off the tinfoil hat. Just write about something else.”

“I will not be silenced. I know you and Heather are friends. Is she cherry picking the good stories for you? Is that it? Give me one good reason why my next headline shouldn’t be Corruption at the Springwood Press .”

“Oh my god, Anthony, I don’t have time for this. It isn’t a conspiracy. No one is against you. I slept with the cock guy, okay.”

He was silent for a beat. “Wait, what?”

“Yes, we were friends as kids. I went to interview him. We reconnected. We laughed, we reminisced, he saw me naked. Now I don’t want his life to blow up because I want to be a part of it.”

I glance up to find five sets of eyes watching me, but I only meet one.

Wesley.

Whether he forgave me for this whole shit storm or not, I didn’t know. First, I needed to clean up the mess I’d made, or sort of made. Once he knew his life wasn’t in danger of blowing up, then we could see if there was more to explore. God, I hoped there was.

“Uh, okay. I guess that–”

I hung up before Anthony could finish his ramblings. I needed to think.

Wesley’s wifi was slow but I didn’t want to go home or back to the office to get this started.

Wesley had been isolated from everyone, both as a kid of divorced parents and again as an adult.

This whole war room needed to stay where it was.

Franny busied herself making tea and the men found their way out to the porch.

After reviewing what I had, my eyes hit on a note I’d made on the first day the article was assigned:

Question: Does the punishment fit the crime?

I’d said something similar to Heather in her office .

That was it.

Wesley had become the face of a problem bigger than himself. He became a scapegoat for every man who had ever made a sexist comment or sent dick pics on a dating site. He didn’t deserve it.

I settled my fingers over the keys and started writing everything that came to mind.

Every community has its moral code. Doing something wrong within a community can and should be called out, reprimanded and/or penalized depending on the nature of the incident.

What if that community is the entire world via the internet?

Worse, what if the people within that internet community feel safe behind a wall of anonymity and are willing to call out, threaten and ruin the life of a person for something that would normally barely be a blip on the radar?

Franny set a cup of tea next to me on the table and I kept writing, rewriting and scribbling on a notepad.

An hour later I had a half-assed draft of something I thought I could work with.

I’d need to do some research to add real numbers and stats into the story.

I’d also have to see if Wesley would be willing to provide a quote for the piece.

Not because I wanted this article to shine for the sake of my career, but because I wanted him to finally have a say.

I became aware of faces peering over my shoulder and I gave Agnes, Bill, Henry and Franny each a chance to read what I’d written. I got four nods of approval before they headed towards the driveway. I guessed that meant they trusted me to do what needed to be done.

I hadn’t seen Wesley since I’d been typing. I stretched my back and started looking for him. It didn’t take long. He was standing in front of his bedroom closet, the bed was covered in boxes, hangers, hats and clothes.

“Wesley,” I started, but I didn’t know how to finish the sentence. He had resigned himself to having to move before the article was even out.

He turned to face me, shoulders slumped in a way I wasn’t used to seeing.

I had no idea where we stood, but it didn’t stop me from moving across the room and putting my arms around him.

He hugged me back without hesitation and I sank into the heat of him.

I could get used to this way too easily, but the man was literally packing.

His first round with the media had broken him.

If I wanted him, I’d have to help put him back together.

“I want to show you what I wrote, but first I want us to forget about this whole thing. At least for a little while.” With his arms still around me I shoved the boxes off the bed, irrationally angry that they were there in the first place.

They hit the floor, one after the other, scattering on impact.

Only when the bed was a place for sleep and sex and not packing, did I sit on the edge and pull him towards me.

Neither one of us spoke as I scooted up the bed and rested my head on his pillow. He crawled his body over mine. He was wearing another faded pair of jeans and a white t-shirt. The material was soft under my hands where I slid them up his back and pulled his mouth to mine.