Page 2 of Mountain Man’s Bonfire Beauty (Wildwood Valley Harvest #5)

PARKER

I ’ve never been happier to do manual labor.

I was hauling kindling from one pile to another. The first pile was one a group of super muscular construction guys were making from items they’d gathered from the woods. Our job was to move that to a much bigger pile of logs and limbs and branches that would become the bonfire.

All of us vendors were pitching in—even though I was a local and most of the others weren’t.

For the past couple of months, I’d been staying at a cabin my parents had bought, planning to turn it into a vacation rental.

Yeah, they’d quickly learned there weren’t very many vacationers in the town of Wildwood Valley.

“Let me help with that.”

My heart was racing as the gorgeous guy with soft brown eyes walked toward me. He had harsh features, but those eyes had gone straight to my soul—even when he was yelling at me for creating a fire hazard.

Okay, not yelling. I’d been corrected on that many times in my life. I was overly sensitive to a man raising his voice. I had reasons, and those reasons were nobody’s business but my own.

“I can do it,” I said, glancing down at the bundle of limbs in my arms. “It’s kind of precarious right now, so if I try to shift it to you, it’ll probably all fall to the ground.”

He nodded. “Fair point. I want to make it up to you, though.”

He was walking next to me now, the two of us as alone as we could be when there were dozens of people everywhere. Like worker bees, they rushed back and forth from the big pile to the small pile.

“I was kind of an ass.” He paused, then corrected, “I am kind of an ass.”

The correction caught my attention. When someone tells you who they are, believe them.

That was a saying I’d heard once, and I wholeheartedly embraced it.

I’d spent the past five years since high school graduation deftly avoiding toxic relationships.

I didn’t want to fall into the trap so many of my friends had of falling for a guy who was, well, an asshole.

The problem was, I’d avoided relationships altogether. I’d been on a few dates, mostly group things with friends, but guys usually had me running the second I recognized red flags.

But I’d never felt this before—this overpowering draw toward someone. It had me wondering if my “asshole alert” had ever worked in the first place.

“No, you were right,” I said. “I shouldn’t have had an open flame so close to kids. It could have gone sideways fast.”

“It kind of did,” he said.

“Yes, but nobody was hurt. Sorry about your jacket. I’ll buy you another one.”

I just hoped it was an inexpensive jacket, not some designer brand. From the looks of it, it had some age on it. It was army green, which probably meant he was ex-military. Most of the guys around here were.

“It came from a thrift store,” he said. “No big deal. I have a closet full of jackets.”

I set my kindling on the ground. The bonfire pile was so high now, I couldn’t just plop it down like I’d been doing. I had to add pieces toward the top, which was about chest height.

“Here,” he said. “You hand them to me, and I’ll pile them on top.”

I couldn’t help but notice I was the only female vendor who had a personal helper right now.

That probably would change. He’d move over to help someone else soon enough.

I shouldn’t take this personally. It wasn’t that he was interested in me.

If anything, he was probably afraid I’d do something dangerous again.

“So you are a vet?” I asked as we worked.

“Navy. My buddy grew up here. When I got out, it just seemed like a good place to settle.” He paused, looking at me expectantly. “How about you? What do you do?”

I hesitated, bundle of twigs in hand. How much did I want to share with this virtual stranger? Even if he was a virtual stranger who made my pulse race every time he looked at me.

“It’s complicated,” I said, handing him the twigs. “I’m kind of between things right now.”

He nodded, accepting my non-answer without pushing. “I get that. Sometimes you need time to figure out what comes next.”

There was something in his tone that made me think he understood more than most people would. “Is that why you moved here? To figure things out?”

“Partly.” He arranged the kindling carefully on top of the pile, his movements precise and methodical. “The transition from military to civilian life isn’t exactly smooth. Everything’s different—the pace, the structure, the…purpose, I guess.”

“How long have you been out?”

“Three years.” He glanced at me. “Three years, and I’m still figuring it out. Some days I miss the clarity of it all—knowing exactly what my job was, what was expected of me. Out here, it’s all gray areas.”

I handed him another bundle, considering his words. “Is that why you’re so focused on safety? Because you miss having clear rules?”

He was quiet for a moment, and I thought maybe I’d pushed too far. But then he nodded slowly. “Maybe. In the Navy, following protocol kept people alive. Out here, people think I’m being paranoid or controlling, but…” He shrugged. “Old habits.”

“For what it’s worth,” I said softly, “I’m glad you were paranoid today. Things could have been a lot worse if you hadn’t been there.”

Our eyes met, and something passed between us—a moment of understanding that made my chest tight. Then he cleared his throat and looked away.

“We should probably start marking the perimeter,” he said. “I brought some stakes and rope, but I could use someone with experience managing crowds to help figure out the best placement.”

I blinked at him in surprise. “You want my help?”

“You handle dozens of kids at your booth every day without anyone getting trampled or lost. That’s not an accident—that’s skill.” He gestured toward the growing pile of wood in the center of the field. “This is going to be a lot bigger crowd in a much less controlled environment.”

Pride warmed my chest at the unexpected compliment. “Okay. What did you have in mind?”

He led me toward his truck, where I could see a coil of bright orange rope and a box of metal stakes in the bed. “I was thinking we’d create zones—close enough for people to feel the warmth and see the fire, but far enough back to be safe if something sparks or shifts.”

“Smart.” I studied the field, mentally calculating distances and crowd flow. “You’ll want to account for kids, though. They’re going to want to get closer, and parents won’t always be watching. Maybe a double perimeter? Inner boundary for adults only, outer boundary for families?”

His eyes lit up. “That’s brilliant. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“And you’ll want to leave clear pathways,” I continued, getting into the planning now. “People need to be able to move around without bottlenecking. Maybe here, here, and here?” I pointed to three different spots around the imaginary circle.

“Exactly.” He grabbed a rope and stakes from the truck. “This is why I needed your help. I was thinking like a soldier—contain and control. You’re thinking like someone who actually understands how people move in groups.”

We walked the perimeter together, him holding one end of the rope while I stayed on the outskirts, calling out adjustments as we went. It felt natural, working together like this. Our styles complemented each other—his methodical precision balancing my intuitive understanding of crowd dynamics.

“Here,” I said when we reached a spot where the ground dipped slightly. “This is going to be a problem. People will naturally gravitate to the low ground because it feels more stable, but if someone trips…”

“They’ll take out everyone behind them.” He was already reaching for a stake. “We’ll mark this as a no-standing zone.”

As we worked, hammering stakes into the ground and stretching rope between them, the conversation flowed easier than it had any right to.

He asked about my s’mores business, and I found myself telling him about the farmers’ markets I’d worked in other towns, the trial and error of perfecting recipes, the satisfaction of seeing kids light up when they tasted the perfect marshmallow.

“So this isn’t your first rodeo,” he said, adjusting the tension on a section of rope.

“Definitely not. Though it’s the first place I’ve accidentally set anything on fire.” I made a face. “Not exactly the impression I was hoping to make.”

“Could have happened to anyone,” he said, but there was something in his voice that made me look at him closer.

“Could it have? Or are you just being nice?”

He was quiet for a moment, testing the stability of a stake. “My first month out of the Navy, I was working as a mechanic at an autobody shop. Thought I had everything under control, knew what I was doing. I made a mistake with a bench grinder that could have taken my hand off.”

I stopped working, giving him my full attention.

“My manager chewed me out in front of everyone,” he continued. “Told me I was dangerous, reckless, that I had no business being a mechanic if I couldn’t follow basic safety protocols.”

“That’s awful.”

“He was right, though. I was so focused on proving I could handle civilian work that I got sloppy. Overconfident.” He looked at me directly. “Sound familiar?”

Heat crept up my neck. “Are you saying I was overconfident today?”

“I’m saying you’re human. And sometimes being human means making mistakes, even when you’re good at what you do.” His voice was gentle. “I shouldn’t have come down on you so hard.”

The sincerity in his expression made something inside me soften. “I shouldn’t have been so defensive. You were trying to help, and I…I don’t like being told I’m doing something wrong.”

“Bad experience with criticism?”

I gave a short laugh. “You could say that.” I bent to pick up another stake, not ready to elaborate. “Let’s just say I’ve had my fill of people who think they know better than I do.”

“Ah.” Understanding colored his tone. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think I know better than you. I just…worry. Probably more than I should.”

“Why?”

The question hung in the air between us as we continued working. I thought he wasn’t going to answer, but then he said quietly, “Lost some good people overseas. Friends who might still be alive if someone had been a little more careful, a little more paranoid about safety.”

My chest tightened at the pain in his voice. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. But it’s why I can’t seem to turn off the hypervigilance. Why seeing you in potential danger today made me react like an ass instead of a rational human being.”

I stopped walking and turned to face him fully. “You’re not an ass. You’re someone who cares about people getting hurt. There’s a difference.”

He met my eyes, and for a moment, the air between us seemed charged with something deeper than simple attraction. Then voices carried across the field, breaking the spell.

“Ayden. Parker.” Ashe was jogging toward us, followed by what looked like half the volunteer crew. “How’s it coming over here?”

Just like that, our bubble of intimacy popped. But as the group descended on us, chattering about timelines and logistics and whether we needed more firewood, I caught Ayden’s eye and smiled. He smiled back, and I knew that whatever this was between us, it wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.