Page 1 of My Obsessive Mountain Man (Summer in the Pines #3)

The road narrows as I climb higher into the mountains, my little rental car struggling against the incline. Three hours from the airport, and Fox Ridge feels like another planet compared to Chicago—all towering pines, jagged peaks, and a silence so complete it has texture.

I round a bend and catch my first glimpse of the lake glittering in the distance, the afternoon sun turning it into hammered gold. My grandmother's stories didn't do it justice.

"Final destination in one mile," my GPS announces, the robotic voice jarring against the natural quiet.

I grip the steering wheel tighter. The sooner I can get this over with, the better.

Appraise the cabin, meet with the real estate agent tomorrow, sign whatever needs signing, and be back in Chicago by the weekend.

Clean, efficient, painless. That's how I handle everything in my life, especially the emotional landmines.

My phone buzzes with a text. I ignore it until I pull onto the gravel drive that winds through a copse of aspens. When I park, I check the message.

Storm coming in faster than expected. Need to reschedule for after the weekend. So sorry for the inconvenience. - Janet Webber, Fox Ridge Realty

"Perfect," I mutter, dropping my phone into my bag. A wasted trip. I should have checked the weather forecast more carefully.

I step out of the car, my boots crunching on gravel, and take in my grandmother's—no, my—cabin for the first time.

It's larger than I expected, with a wide covered porch wrapping around what I can see of the front and right side.

The logs are weathered to a rich honey color, with green trim around the windows and doors.

Despite its obvious age, it looks... maintained.

Not at all the neglected property I'd prepared myself for after three years of emptiness.

Movement on the porch catches my eye, and my heart lurches into my throat.

A man straightens from where he's been working on the railing, hammer in hand.

He's enormous—tall and broad-shouldered, with the solid build of someone who works with his body rather than behind a desk.

Dark hair peppered with silver at the temples frames a face that's all angles and weathered planes.

He's older than me, perhaps mid-forties, with eyes the color of the lake I just passed—deep, cold blue that somehow burns.

Those eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.

"You're here," he says, his voice a low rumble that carries across the yard. Not a question. A confirmation, like he's been waiting.

I freeze halfway up the path, suddenly aware of how isolated we are. No neighbors in sight. No passing traffic. Just mountains and forest and this stranger who doesn't look surprised to see me.

"Who are you?" I ask, keeping my distance. My keys are still in my hand, and I subtly position them between my fingers—a self-defense trick I learned from mom.

The man sets down his hammer and wipes his palms on worn jeans. "Paul Mullins." He doesn't move toward me, seeming to understand my caution. "I've been looking after the place since Martha passed."

My grandmother's name in his mouth sends a shiver through me. "You knew my grandmother?"

A small smile softens his harsh features, transforming him from intimidating to merely imposing. "Everyone knew Martha." He studies me for a beat too long. "You look just like her photos. The ones on the mantel."

I don't know which unsettles me more—that this stranger has been inside the cabin, or that he's apparently studied my grandmother's pictures of me. Yet something about his calm certainty disarms my suspicion.

"I'm Violet Carson," I say, climbing the remaining steps but maintaining distance. "This cabin belongs to me now."

"I know who you are." Again, that direct gaze that seems to see through my carefully constructed facade. "Martha talked about you all the time."

Guilt hits me. Three years since her funeral, and this is my first visit. I'd always meant to come see her more, but work always seemed to get in the way. Another appraisal, another auction, another acquisition for the gallery.

"The real estate agent canceled," I say, changing the subject. "There's apparently a storm coming."

Paul nods, looking toward the western sky where dark clouds are gathering over the peaks.

"It'll be here by nightfall. Big one, from the feel of it.

" He moves toward the door with the easy confidence of someone who belongs there.

"You should come inside. I just finished fixing that loose railing.

Your grandmother always worried someone would lean on it and take a tumble. "

I hesitate, but curiosity wins out. I follow him, noting the breadth of his shoulders beneath his shirt, the way the fabric stretches across his back as he moves.

He's rolled his sleeves to the elbows, revealing tanned forearms corded with muscle and marked with a few faded scars.

Everything about him speaks of physical capability and brute strength.

The door opens with a familiar creak, and I'm hit with the scent of pine and cinnamon—exactly how I remember it from childhood summers. The main room is clean, almost pristine. A fire is laid in the stone hearth, ready to be lit. The wooden floors gleam with polish.

"You've been maintaining the interior too?" I ask, unable to hide my surprise.

Paul shrugs, the gesture somehow both casual and deliberate. "Seemed right. Martha was good to me." He moves to the kitchen, filling a kettle and placing it on the stove. "You drink tea, right? Earl Grey with a splash of milk, no sugar."

I stare at him. "How do you know that?"

His eyes meet mine, and something in them makes my breath catch—an intensity that should frighten me but somehow doesn't. "Martha mentioned it. Said you'd sit at her table and drink tea for hours, talking about art."

It's true. Those are some of my fondest memories of her.

"I stocked the fridge yesterday when I heard you were coming," he continues, opening a cabinet to reveal tea boxes and other essentials. "Guest room is made up too. You'll be comfortable."

I should be alarmed by this level of preparation from a stranger, but instead, I find myself oddly touched. "You've been expecting me."

"For three years." The simple honesty in those words catches me off guard.

Lightning flashes outside, followed by a distant rumble of thunder. The mountains have disappeared behind a wall of gray.

"Your real estate agent won't make it back until after the storm passes," Paul says, watching me carefully. "Roads get dangerous here when it rains. You should stay until it blows over."

"I have a hotel booked in town."

"Town's thirty minutes in good weather. Longer in this." He nods toward the window where rain has started to patter against the glass. "You're safer here."

I should argue, should insist on keeping to my plan, maintaining the professional distance I always do. But something about this place—about him—makes me hesitate.

"I suppose one night wouldn't hurt," I concede. "I need to look through some things anyway."

Paul nods, satisfied, and turns back to the stove as the kettle whistles. There's something fascinating about watching his large hands perform the delicate task of preparing tea—measured, precise movements that speak of care and attention to detail.

"I didn't expect to find anyone here," I say as he hands me a steaming mug, the tea prepared exactly as I like it without my having to ask. "Let alone someone who seems to know so much about me."

Paul leans against the counter, his large frame somehow making the spacious kitchen feel smaller.

"Your grandmother kept this place alive with stories about you," he says. "The art prodigy who could identify painters by their brushstrokes when she was twelve. The woman who turned her eye for beauty into a career."

"She exaggerated. Grandmothers do that." Heat rises to my cheeks.

"I don't think she did," Paul replies, his gaze steady, appraising in a way that makes me feel both exposed and seen. "You have her way of looking at things—really seeing them."

I take a sip of tea to hide my reaction, surprised to find it perfectly brewed.

"And what exactly do you see, Mr. Mullins?" I ask.

His eyes crinkle slightly at the corners, not quite a smile.

"I see Martha's granddaughter, finally home," he says simply.

"I'm only here to sell the place, you know?" I remind him, and perhaps myself.

"Are you?" he asks quietly, and the simple question feels like a challenge I'm not prepared to answer.

The power flickers as another crash of thunder shakes the windows. Paul moves to the fireplace and strikes a match, setting it to the kindling. The fire catches immediately, casting his profile in gold and shadow.

"I should get my bags," I say, needing a moment to collect myself.

"I'll get them. Storm's picking up." He rises to his full height, and I'm again struck by his sheer presence. He doesn't wait for my response, just strides past me and out the door.

I watch from the window as rain plasters his shirt to his back. He retrieves my suitcase and laptop bag from the car with efficient movements, seemingly unbothered by the downpour. Something about his protective certainty makes my chest tight.

The power flickers again and goes out completely, leaving only the glow of the fire. Paul returns, setting my bags down, water dripping from his hair.

"Power lines are fragile up here," he says, running a hand through his wet hair. "But the generator will kick in soon for the essentials. We've got the fire for warmth."

"We?" I ask softly.

He looks at me, firelight dancing across his face, and in his eyes I see something that should send me running back into the storm—a certainty, a possession, a claim that has no right to exist between strangers.

"I'm not leaving you alone in a storm, Violet," he says simply, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. As if he's been waiting all this time just to keep me safe.

And standing there in the doorway, watching him move through the shadows of my grandmother's cabin—my cabin—with the comfortable familiarity of belonging, I feel something shift inside me. This wasn't supposed to be anything more than a transaction, a quick stop on my way back to real life.

But as the storm closes in around us, I can't shake the feeling that I've stepped into something I don't understand.