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

Sunlight filters through faded lace curtains, casting delicate patterns across the quilt covering me. For a moment, I'm disoriented—the bed unfamiliar, the silence too complete. Then it rushes back: the summer storm, the cabin, Paul.

I breathe in deeply, expecting mustiness from a long-unused room, but find only the faint scent of cedar and clean mountain air mingled with the unmistakable aroma of fresh coffee. My body feels heavy.

A rhythmic thudding sound from outside draws me to the window. I push aside the curtain, and my breath catches.

Paul is in the yard, shirtless in the morning light, swinging an axe with controlled precision.

Fallen branches from last night's storm are scattered across the clearing, and he's methodically cutting them for firewood.

His back is a landscape of muscle and scars, skin golden in the morning sunlight, his movements fluid and certain.

A thin sheen of sweat makes his shoulders gleam.

I should step away from the window. I shouldn't be watching him like this, with this strange, hungry feeling building in my chest. But I can't look away.

He pauses, wiping his brow with his forearm, then glances toward the cabin—toward my window. I duck back instinctively, heart racing like I've been caught doing something illicit. When I dare to peek again, he's returned to his work, but there's the ghost of a smile on his lips.

He knows I was watching.

I dress quickly in jeans and a soft t-shirt, run my fingers through my hair in a futile attempt to tame it, and splash cold water on my face. I look different somehow, even to myself—my eyes brighter, cheeks flushed with more than just sleep. I barely recognize the woman in the mirror.

The main room is warm now that the weather has cleared. Two mugs sit on the counter beside a French press full of coffee. On the table is a plate of what appears to be homemade bread, a jar of honey, and a bowl of wild berries. All waiting, as if he knew exactly when I'd wake.

I pour myself coffee, the rich aroma making my stomach growl, and carry it to the porch. The morning air is crisp and clean after the storm, the world washed new. Droplets of water cling to pine needles and sparkle in the sunlight like thousands of tiny prisms.

"Morning," Paul calls, setting down his axe and reaching for a worn t-shirt hanging on the porch railing. I feel an irrational pang of disappointment as he pulls it over his head, covering that expanse of skin and muscle. "Sleep well?"

"Better than I have in months," I admit, surprising myself with the truth of it. "No city noise. No notifications. Just... peace."

He climbs the steps to join me, and I'm suddenly aware of how small the porch feels with him on it.

"Breakfast is inside," he says, moving past me to retrieve his own mug of coffee. His arm brushes mine, and even that fleeting contact sends electricity skittering across my skin. "Nothing fancy. Just sourdough I baked yesterday and berries I picked at dawn."

"You bake?" I follow him inside, cradling my mug like a shield.

He shrugs, the simple movement rippling through his shoulders. "Living alone, you learn to make what you want."

"And what do you want, Paul?" The question slips out before I can catch it, weighted with more meaning than I intended.

His eyes lock onto mine, blue and clear and unflinching. "Things that last," he says simply.

We eat at the small table, sunshine pouring through the windows, the only sounds our forks against plates and the occasional call of a bird outside. The bread is crusty and perfect, the honey wild and complex, the berries sun-warmed and sweet.

"Your grandmother's diaries are in the chest," Paul says after a comfortable silence. "She'd want you to read them."

I glance toward the hidden compartment we explored last night. "I'm not sure I'm ready for that."

"You don't have to read them alone." He takes our empty plates to the sink. "Sometimes it helps to share the weight."

Twenty minutes later, we're sitting on the porch swing, the weathered wood smooth beneath my thighs. Paul has positioned himself at one end, giving me space, but our bodies still align from shoulder to knee. In my lap rests a leather-bound journal, its pages soft with age and handling.

"This one's from the summer you turned twelve," he explains. "She talked about that summer a lot."

My fingers trace the date written in my grandmother's flowing script. I remember that summer—the first time I stayed at the cabin alone with her, after my parents' divorce. I'd been angry, closed off, hurting. She never pushed, just let me be, giving me paints and space and quiet understanding.

I begin to read aloud, my voice catching on my grandmother's words:

"'Violet arrived today, all soft edges and silence. So much like her father in her stubbornness, so much like me in her heart. She doesn't know it yet, but this summer will save her, the way this mountain saved me when I was lost. Some souls need wilderness to find their center again.'"

My throat tightens. I hadn't known she saw me so clearly.

"Keep going," Paul encourages softly, his arm resting behind me on the swing's back, not quite touching but present.

I turn pages, finding entries about our daily rituals—morning walks to the lake, afternoons spent with me painting while she gardened, evenings reading by the fire.

In her words, I see myself through her eyes—not the awkward, angry child I remember being, but a girl with "an old soul and keen eyes that miss nothing. "

"'Today Violet painted the sunrise,'" I read, my voice steadier now.

"'Not the postcard version, but the true one—all messy oranges bleeding into purple, the light breaking through in unexpected places.

She sees the world as it is, not as others tell her it should be.

This gift will carry her through life, though it may sometimes feel like a burden. '"

I close the journal, overcome. "She understood me better than I understood myself."

"She saw you," Paul says quietly. He reaches out, brushing away a tear I didn't realize had fallen. His fingertip is calloused but gentle against my cheek. "Just as you are."

Birds call from the trees. A breeze carries the scent of pine and warming earth. I should feel trapped here, anxious to get back to my real life in Chicago. Instead, I feel something dangerously close to peace.

"There's something else I want to show you," Paul says finally, standing and offering his hand.

I take it without hesitation, his palm warm and solid against mine. He leads me around the back of the cabin, along a narrow path through blooming wildflowers, to a small shed I hadn't noticed before. Unlike the rustic cabin, this structure is newer, with a sturdy padlock on the door.

"Your grandmother called this her treasure room," Paul explains, producing a key from his pocket. "After the break-in attempt five years ago, we built this together, fireproof and secure."

"Break-in?" I ask, alarmed.

He nods grimly. "Some locals knew Martha had a collection. Nothing came of it—I happened to be nearby." The set of his jaw suggests there's more to that story than he's telling. "After that, we moved everything valuable out here."

The door swings open, and Paul steps aside to let me enter first. Sunlight streams through small, high windows, illuminating what can only be described as a private museum.

Glass display cabinets line the walls, filled with antiques: Tiffany lamps, delicate porcelain, vintage jewelry, and art pieces I immediately recognize as valuable.

In the center stands a magnificent roll-top desk that my professional eye places in the late 1800s, immaculately preserved.

"Oh my God," I breathe, my appraiser's mind automatically calculating values that quickly soar into six figures. "I had no idea she had all this."

"Most of it came with the cabin when she bought it in the sixties," Paul explains, watching me closely. "The original owner was a collector who fell on hard times. Your grandmother kept everything, added to it over the years."

I move slowly through the space, stunned by the quality and condition of each piece. Everything has been meticulously cared for—the silver polished, the wood oiled, the glass gleaming.

"You did this," I say, not a question. "You've been maintaining all of it."

Paul shrugs, but I see the pride in his eyes. "Seemed important to preserve it properly. For when you came."

"For when I came," I repeat softly, the weight of his dedication settling around me like a physical thing. For three years, he's been here, protecting not just a cabin but a legacy. My legacy. Waiting for me with a patience that seems impossible in today's disposable world.

In the corner, a small table holds what appears to be a jewelry box. I approach it, drawn by the intricate inlay of mother-of-pearl and exotic woods.

"This is Swiss," I say, professional interest momentarily overriding emotion. "Late 19th century. The craftsmanship is extraordinary."

"It was her favorite," Paul says, moving to stand beside me. His presence is solid, grounding. "It plays music, but the mechanism is delicate. Here—"

He reaches around me, his chest pressing lightly against my back, his arms encircling but not trapping me as he demonstrates. "You have to lift this hidden latch first, then turn the key twice, not three times, or the spring winds too tight."

His breath is warm against my hair. My own breathing has gone shallow, my body hyper-aware of his proximity. His fingers guide mine to the latch, and the touch sends heat spiraling through me. Together, we open the box, wind the key.

The first notes of a melody I vaguely recognize float into the air between us—something classical and bittersweet. I turn within the circle of his arms to face him, and find his eyes already on mine, intense and waiting.

"Why did you stay?" I whisper. "All this time, maintaining everything, waiting... why?"

"Because from the moment I saw your picture on Martha's mantel, I knew," he says, his voice low and certain. One hand comes up to cradle my face, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone. "Some things you just know, Violet."

The music box plays on, delicate and persistent. Outside, birds call. Sunlight catches dust motes floating between us, turning them to gold. Time seems to slow, crystallize around this moment.

I should be afraid of this intensity, this certainty. I should step back, make excuses, maintain the emotional distance I've perfected over the years. Instead, I find myself rising onto my toes, drawn to him like iron to a magnet.

"What do you know?" My voice is barely audible, even to myself.

His other hand slides to my waist, warm and steady. "That you were meant to come back here. That this place has been waiting for you." His gaze drops to my mouth. "That I've been waiting for you."

When our lips finally meet, it's not tentative or questioning.

It's recognition. His mouth is firm and warm against mine, confident but not demanding.

My hands find their way to his chest, feeling the solid beat of his heart beneath my palm.

He tastes like coffee and honey, and I'm suddenly starving for it.

The kiss deepens, his arms tightening around me, lifting me slightly so I'm pressed fully against him. My fingers tangle in his hair, drawing him closer still. There's no hesitation, no awkwardness—just heat and certainty and a bone-deep rightness that terrifies and thrills me.

When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, he keeps me close, his forehead resting against mine. The music box has gone silent, but I can still feel its melody resonating in my blood.

"I've known you were mine since I saw that picture," he murmurs against my lips, his words vibrating through me. "I just needed you to know it too."

Yesterday, these words would have sent me running. Now, with his taste still on my tongue and the solid warmth of him against me, all I can think is: Yes. This. Here.

For the first time in my adult life, I don't want to escape. I don't want to analyze or appraise or put a value on what's happening. I just want to surrender to it, to him, to the strange certainty that's been building since I first saw him on the porch.

I've stopped running, and it feels like coming home.