CHAPTER

THREE

SIERRA

I wake to the soft feel of water dripping.

The water is cool—blessedly cool—and the air smells… masculine? I blink slowly, my lashes sticking together. Everything is hazy at first—shadows and light, warmth and chill. Then I feel it: a large hand on my back, firm but gentle, guiding me.

“Easy,” a deep voice says, smooth and low. “Don’t try to sit up too fast.”

I do anyway.

A sharp wave of dizziness hits me, but it fades as I register the room—log walls, rough-hewn furniture, the creak of old floorboards beneath us. A cabin. Not the kind you rent with wifi and heated floors. The kind someone actually lives in. And then my eyes focus on him . Whoa.

He’s crouched beside me, helping me lay back onto a couch that smells like wood.

His arms— Jesus , his arms—are the first thing I really see.

They’re massive. Tanned and veined and straining against the sleeves of a torn, faded T-shirt that probably fit ten years ago.

His forearms flex as he steadies me, and I try not to stare at the way his biceps practically bulge through the cotton.

My gaze drifts up—because how could it not? It meets eyes so blue I swear the air leaves my lungs again. Bright and piercing, like glacial water. Framed by thick brows and a beard that’s scruffy, golden-brown, and way too sexy for someone who clearly lives off the grid.

“You alright?” he asks again, his voice like gravel warmed in the sun. “You fainted on my porch.”

I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

His eyes search mine with real concern. “Can you talk?”

Talk? That’s apparently a lot to ask when your brain is short-circuiting from the fact that a Paul Bunyan fantasy just saved your life. And he’s crouched in front of you like some woodland god.

I blink and force air into my lungs. “I—I’m okay,” I finally manage, though my voice sounds embarrassingly weak and breathy.

His shoulders visibly relax. He nods, his eyes scanning my face like he’s checking for any cracks.

“Good. That’s good,” he says. “You’ve got heat exhaustion. I’ve been cooling you down. EMTs are on their way, but it’s a hell of a drive out here.”

I nod, though I’m not really listening.

Because he’s still touching me —his hand at the small of my back, warm and steady—and every neuron in my body is firing like fireworks.

The whole thing feels surreal. I’m supposed to be working, making deals, negotiating land.

Not… melting into the touch of some blue-eyed stranger in a cabin in the middle of nowhere.

My chest tightens and I’m suddenly hyper-aware of everything—how close he is, how soft his touch is, how incredibly safe I feel in his arms. And how absolutely not safe this feels in my chest. This fluttering, this heat that has nothing to do with the sun.

I glance up at him again, trying to gather myself. “I… don’t even know your name,” I say softly.

His lips quirk just slightly, a smirk tugging at one corner. “Everest.”

Of course it is. Rugged, wild, impossible to scale.

He hands me a glass of water, and I drink it like it’s liquid gold, barely pausing to breathe.

It’s lukewarm and metallic from the tap, but I swear it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.

He watches me with those glacial blue eyes, one hand resting on the arm of the couch like he’s trying not to hover.

Then he leans back slightly, arms crossing over that broad chest of his, and says, “So… what are you doing up here, anyway?”

I choke slightly on the last sip and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. My brain scrambles. Right. The project. The reason I risked heatstroke and getting eaten by a bear.

“I’m, um… looking for someone,” I say casually, letting the glass rest on my thigh.

His brow lifts just a little. “Only one up this far is me.”

Bingo. I glance at him from beneath my lashes. “Is that right?”

He nods once. “Haven’t seen another soul in days.”

There’s something calm and assured about the way he says it.

Like he doesn’t just live on this mountain—he owns it.

Not in a legal-deeds-and-boundaries way.

In a this-place-is-part-of-me kind of way.

He’s got that rough, grounded thing going on.

Bearded, quiet, weather-worn. Alpha energy without the cockiness.

He lifts an eyebrow. “And you? Who are you?”

“Sierra.”

He nods like he likes it. “You’re also named after mountains?”

“Guess it’s fitting,” I say, flashing a small smile.

It’s crazy how easy this feels, especially after weeks— months —of working under a man who makes my skin crawl, of backdoor deals and fake smiles and being overlooked or over-touched.

But this? Sitting on a worn couch in a dusty cabin, flirting with a man whose arms could crush granite and whose eyes feel like ice water on a burn?

This is the first easy thing I’ve done in this job.

And I’m not stupid. I’m not just here because he’s hot and heroic. I’m here to get him to sign over his land. To make the deal. To finish the damn resort and get what I deserve.

But if flirting gets me closer to yes, then fine.

Let him think I’m just some lost girl with soft eyes and a sweet voice. But something about me doesn’t want to play the game. I just want to spend time with him. I can’t explain it, but it just feels like something is right by being here.

“You live up here all by yourself?” I ask, tilting my head slightly, letting my fingers graze the rim of the glass. “That must get… lonely.”

He watches me carefully, like he’s trying to figure me out. Good luck, Mr. Mountain. I’ve spent years learning how to wear a mask.

His voice is low, rough. “It’s peaceful.”

God. That voice. That mouth. That beard.

“You sure you’re alright?” he asks, voice low, steady. “I can drive you into town. Clinic’s about forty minutes out, but they’ll check your vitals, get you hydrated, maybe give you an IV.”

Part of me wants to say yes. The smart part. The part that still thinks in terms of liability and strategy and getting back to cell service before someone from the office starts calling.

But another part of me—the part that’s sitting in this quiet, wood-smelling cabin with a man who just caught me in his arms and cooled me down like he gave a damn —doesn’t want to go anywhere.

His beard is a little uneven. His brow is furrowed, concerned. He cares . No one in my professional life ever looks at me like this.

“I think…” I pause, then put a hand lightly to my stomach. “I might just have low blood sugar. Maybe I need to eat something.”

His expression eases, just a touch. “That it?”

“I think so,” I say, nodding, managing a soft smile. “I didn’t really eat today. Or drink. Or… plan ahead at all.”

“Alright,” he says, standing slowly. “No problem. I’ll make you something.”

He turns and walks into the kitchen like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I watch him move—broad shoulders shifting beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, his jeans worn and faded, hanging low on narrow hips. He moves like someone who works with his hands, who builds things from nothing. And now he’s about to cook for me?

I sink back into the couch, a little stunned by the warmth spreading in my chest.

No man has ever cooked for me before. Not a boyfriend. Not a date. Not even a guy who wanted something. It’s always been me picking up takeout, making something quick between deadlines, or just skipping meals entirely to prove I can keep up with the boys.

But now this mountain man is pulling out a skillet and a mixing bowl like it’s nothing. He opens the fridge—an old one, humming loudly—and starts pulling out eggs, milk, bacon. He hums under his breath. The sound of it—low and a little rough—fills the room like it belongs here. Like I belong here.

God, this is dangerous.