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“Hiding in Plain Sight”

Didi

My rental car's air conditioning surrendered with a pathetic wheeze as I crested the final mountain curve. After six hours of driving, the ancient Chevy's valiant battle against Montana's July heat had finally ended in defeat.

"Screw it," I muttered, punching the button to roll down all four windows at once.

A wall of humid mountain air slammed into me like opening an oven door, instantly plastering my thin blouse against my skin.

I swept my blonde hair into a messy bun, already feeling tendrils curling wildly in the moisture-laden atmosphere.

At least here I could sweat in peace, away from my persistent listener-turned-stalker who called himself 'ChicagoNightOwl.

' So much for the "cool mountain air" the resort website had promised.

The momentary discomfort vanished when Hope Peak Lake spread below me—a massive sapphire cupped between pine-covered peaks, late afternoon sunlight dancing across its surface like scattered diamonds.

"And this, dear listeners, is what running away looks like when you do it with style," I said, my voice dropping into its radio register without thought. The sultry tone Jamie swears could "make a grocery list sound like foreplay."

No microphone tonight. No audience except myself. Just Deirdre Danielle Lawson—"Didi" to everyone except my mother and the IRS—driving alone toward a month of blessed anonymity, sunglasses hiding tired green eyes that scanned the road with habitual vigilance.

Sweat trickled between my breasts as the road wound down toward Hope Peak Lake Resort.

Each bend revealed another picture-perfect view, each descent cranked the temperature another degree.

July 1st in Montana was apparently determined to rival Chicago's worst heatwaves, but at least here I could sweat in peace, away from unwanted attention.

I'd chosen Hope Peak for its perfect trifecta: miles from Chicago, minimal online presence, and iron-clad guest privacy policies.

The ideal hideout for a radio personality whose late-night listener had transformed from enthusiastic fan to persistent stalker over the past three months.

The packages had started innocently enough—fan mail, small gifts—then escalated to photos of me entering my apartment building, notes about what I'd worn that day, promises of our "inevitable future together. "

The narrow road finally leveled out, and I followed the handwritten directions to Cabin 7.

Relief washed over me when I spotted its isolated position at the property's edge, surrounded by towering pines with only one neighboring cabin visible through the trees.

Minimal neighbors meant minimal potential for unwanted recognition.

Not that my late-night radio fame extended much beyond Chicago's insomniacs, but ChicagoNightOwl had proven disturbingly resourceful.

As I stepped from the car, the heat hit me fully.

My lightweight traveling clothes—chosen for comfort during the long drive—now felt like too many layers in a sauna.

Perspiration immediately beaded along my hairline and upper lip.

The weatherman had announced "record-breaking temperatures" across the Northwest as I'd driven through Idaho, but I'd foolishly assumed the mountains would provide relief.

The key waited in a lockbox alongside a handwritten welcome note from the owner, Ruth Anderson. I fumbled with the combination, fingers slippery with sweat, cursing softly when I dropped the key twice before successfully unlocking the door.

Inside, the air hung thick and motionless. I immediately spotted the window unit air conditioner and lunged for it, twisting the dial to maximum. It responded with a concerning rattle before pushing out a feeble stream of barely-cool air.

"Perfect," I sighed, leaning directly into the pathetic breeze. "Just perfect."

Thirty minutes and one lukewarm shower later, I'd transformed into something resembling a human being again.

I'd abandoned my travel clothes for the simplest outfit possible—frayed cutoff shorts and a Northwestern tank top that had seen better days.

My damp hair was piled atop my head in what could charitably be called an artistic mess.

Makeup seemed pointless in this heat; it would slide off before I could finish applying it.

The cabin itself delivered exactly what the photos had promised—warm pine walls, furniture that balanced comfort with rustic charm, a stone fireplace (utterly useless in this heat), and beyond the rear windows, an unobstructed view of the lake, complete with a private dock jutting into crystal-clear waters.

"Home sweet temporary getaway," I said to the empty room, my voice falling automatically into its on-air cadence. The habit of narrating my life was an occupational hazard after five years of late-night confessionals with insomniacs and night-shift workers across Chicago.

I'd packed light—essentials plus broadcasting equipment.

After discovering my stalker had somehow obtained my home address, material possessions lost their appeal.

The smaller bedroom would serve as my impromptu studio.

I unpacked my tech arsenal—laptop, microphone, mixer—with practiced efficiency, setting up on the small desk beneath the window.

My fingers traced the familiar contours of the microphone stand, the tactile sensation grounding me amid the disorientation of new surroundings. I adjusted the acoustic panels, feeling the padded fabric under my fingertips, sweat making my hands slightly slick against the equipment.

"Testing, testing," I murmured, then cleared my throat and let my voice drop into its professional register. "This is Late Night with Didi, coming to you from... somewhere with actual crickets and enough heat to make a shy girl consider skinny dipping."

The levels peaked perfectly. The internet connection stuttered but held.

I could maintain my career from this backwoods sanctuary while Chicago PD hopefully made progress on identifying my mystery stalker.

The security footage had captured only glimpses of a hooded figure, never a clear face for identification.

My phone buzzed with Jamie's text:

Landed safely? Chicago sweltering, 98 degrees today.

I tapped back:

Safe. Cabin perfect. Just arrived after a six-hour drive. Montana apparently didn't get the memo about mountain coolness.

Jamie responded immediately:

AC struggling here at station too. Getting questions about your "vacation." Maintaining cover story.

I smiled faintly at Jamie's loyalty. My producer was the only person who knew my exact location, and she'd die before revealing it—even to our station manager.

As far as Chicago was concerned, I was taking a well-deserved break at an "undisclosed location" after my stalker situation became too concerning to ignore.

Wiping a fresh trickle of sweat from my neck, I caught my reflection in the small mirror above the desk. My skin glistened in the late afternoon light, heat bringing a flush to my cheeks that no makeup could replicate. At least isolation meant I didn't need to worry about appearances.

By early evening, I couldn't bear the cabin's stifling atmosphere any longer, despite the air conditioner's valiant efforts. The back deck beckoned, promising at least the psychological relief of open space, if not actual cooling breezes.

The wooden planks had absorbed the day's heat, warm through my thin-soled sandals.

I leaned against the railing, surveying my temporary kingdom—lake stretching to the horizon, mountains rising beyond, sunset painting everything in warm amber light that would have been beautiful if it didn't remind me how long this heat had been baking everything.

A gravel path led down to my private dock, and I followed it, breathing in the heady mix of pine resin and freshwater.

Cicadas buzzed relentlessly, their chorus punctuated by the occasional splash of jumping fish.

My gaze swept the tree line—a habit born from months of feeling watched—before I allowed myself to relax marginally.

Movement on the neighboring dock caught my eye, and I froze.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt this peaceful moment to bring you breaking developments from the Department of Unexpected Scenery," I whispered to myself, unable to tear my gaze away.

My dock neighbor was male, gloriously, unapologetically bare-chested, repairing loose boards with single-minded focus.

From my vantage point, I couldn't help but appreciate the view: broad shoulders carved from what must be years of outdoor work, a tapered torso that narrowed to a trim waist, defined abs visible even from this distance.

Muscles shifted beneath sun-bronzed skin as he worked.

Sandy hair, darkened with sweat at the temples, caught the golden light of the setting sun.

Something molten pooled low in my belly, a heat entirely separate from the summer air. It had been months since I'd allowed myself to look at a man with anything but suspicion, but this... this was pure, primal appreciation.

With each swing of his hammer, muscles rippled across his back in a mesmerizing display of controlled power.

Sweat highlighted the definition of his shoulders, tracing paths down to the waistband of his worn jeans.

His strong jawline remained focused on his task, a study in concentration.

The golden evening light caught the scattered freckles across his nose and cheekbones, adding an unexpected touch of boyishness to his otherwise rugged appearance.

He fixed the dock with unwavering attention, not a wasted motion in sight. His movements spoke of discipline and precision—qualities I'd stopped associating with men after my last relationship imploded spectacularly, followed by my stalker situation.

I was still staring—conducting thorough observational research, obviously—when he straightened and turned toward me.