Page 8 of Restored by the Mountain Man (Eden Ridge: Hunter Brothers #3)

ZOE

F ive AM comes way too early but I'm already dressed and waiting with my overnight bag when Ezra's truck rumbles up my driveway. The sound sends an unexpected flutter through my stomach and I take a deep breath to center myself.

This is a business trip. Professional. Important for the distillery.

The fact that I changed outfits three times this morning is completely irrelevant.

I settled on dark jeans that hug my curves without being inappropriate, a soft cream sweater that's professional but not stuffy, and my most comfortable boots for walking around the farm. My hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, and I've kept my makeup minimal but polished.

When I step outside, Ezra is already out of the truck, moving to take my bag. He looks devastatingly handsome in worn jeans and a dark green Henley that clings to his broad shoulders. His hair is slightly damp like he just showered and the scent of his cologne mingles with the crisp mountain air.

"Morning," I say, trying to ignore the way my pulse quickens when our fingers brush as he takes my bag.

"Morning." His voice is gravelly with sleep and I have to suppress a shiver at the sound. "Ready for this?"

"Absolutely. I've been researching Wild Earth Farms since yesterday. Their sustainability practices are impressive."

He nods, loading my bag into the back of his truck next to his own. "Francisco's family takes pride in their work. They’re third generation farmers who've managed to stay true to their values while adapting to modern demands."

I climb into the passenger seat, noting how the interior smells different than it did a few nights ago. I almost lean in closer. Instead, I buckle my seatbelt and focus on the folder of research I've prepared.

"I've put together a comprehensive analysis of their grain quality standards and how they align with our production needs," I tell him as he settles into the driver's seat. "Plus projections on volume requirements for the next two years."

"Thorough as always." There's something that might be approval in his voice, and it warms me more than it should.

The first hour of the drive passes in comfortable conversation about business. We discuss fermentation processes, grain specifications, and the logistics of scaling up production. It's easy to talk shop with Ezra. His knowledge is encyclopedic, his passion evident in every word.

But as we leave the mountains behind and the landscape opens into rolling hills, the conversation lulls. The silence isn't uncomfortable exactly, but it's charged with something I can't quite name.

I find myself stealing glances at his profile. The strong line of his jaw, the way his hands grip the steering wheel with casual confidence. When he reaches over to adjust the radio, his arm brushes mine and I feel that contact like a spark.

"Tell me about the festival," I say, needing to break the tension. "Laurel mentioned wanting to go."

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "It's a harvest celebration. Local tradition going back decades. Food, music, crafts. Families come from all over the region."

There's something carefully neutral in his tone, like he's editing his words. I remember the way he reacted the day before yesterday when I mentioned the festival, how he seemed to go somewhere else entirely.

"You've been before?" I ask gently.

"Once." The single word is clipped, final. A door slamming shut.

I don't push. Whatever memory the festival holds for him, it's clearly painful. Instead, I turn my attention back to the passing scenery, watching as farmland stretches in every direction.

We stop for coffee at a small town diner and I'm grateful for the chance to stretch my legs. Ezra orders for both of us while I use the restroom, and when I return, he's chatting easily with the elderly waitress who clearly knows him.

"Don't see you around much anymore, honey," she's saying, refilling his coffee cup. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm good, Mrs. Patterson. Keeping busy with the distillery."

She pats his shoulder with the familiarity of someone who's known him since childhood. "Well, you know you're always welcome here. And bring this pretty young lady back with you next time."

Heat rises in my cheeks as she winks at me. "Oh, we're just colleagues. It’s a business trip."

"Mmm hmm." Her knowing smile suggests she's not buying it. "Well, you two drive safe now."

Back in the truck, I can't help but tease him. "Popular with the locals, I see."

A ghost of a smile plays at his lips. "Mrs. Patterson knew my parents. She's been feeding me pie since I was knee high."

It's the most personal thing he's shared and I realize I want to know more. What was he like as a child? Did he always have that serious intensity or was there a time when he laughed easily?

"Were you close? With your parents?"

His hands tighten on the steering wheel. "Yeah. Dad taught me everything about distilling. Mom kept us all in line." His voice softens. "They would have liked you."

The simple statement hits me harder than it should. "I would have liked to meet them."

We fall into silence again but this time it feels different. Less charged, more contemplative. Like we've shared something significant without meaning to.

The landscape changes as we drive deeper into farm country. Rolling hills give way to vast fields of grain, golden in the afternoon sun. Tractors move slowly across distant pastures and the air carries the earthy scent of harvest.

"There," Ezra says, pointing to a cluster of buildings ahead. "Wild Earth Farms."

The farm is picturesque in a way that seems almost too perfect.

A white farmhouse with a wraparound porch, red barn that looks like it belongs on a postcard, silos stretching toward the sky.

But there's something lived in about it too.

Working vehicles are parked haphazardly, equipment scattered around the yard, the general organized chaos of a working farm.

As we pull up to the main house, I notice something else. There are colorful banners strung between trees and booths being constructed in what looks like a large field behind the barn.

"Festival prep," Ezra explains, following my gaze.

A man emerges from the farmhouse before we've even parked. Tall and lean with sun-weathered skin and graying hair, he moves with the easy confidence of someone completely at home in his environment.

"Francisco?" I ask.

Ezra nods, climbing out of the truck. "Francisco Morales."

Francisco greets Ezra with a firm handshake and genuine warmth. "Ezra! Good to see you, my friend. And this must be Ms. Diaz."

"Zoe, please," I say, accepting his outstretched hand.

"Welcome to Wild Earth. I hope the drive wasn't too rough."

"It’s a beautiful countryside," I tell him honestly. "Thank you for having us."

Francisco's smile falters slightly. "About that. We have a small problem with your accommodations."

Ezra's posture shifts, becoming more alert. "Problem?"

"The bed and breakfast we booked for you is full. Festival week, you know. Everyone in town is packed to capacity." Francisco looks genuinely distressed. "I feel terrible about the mix up."

My stomach sinks. Four hours from home with nowhere to stay. "Is there anywhere else nearby?"

Francisco shakes his head. "Not within an hour's drive and every where’s booked solid anyway." He brightens suddenly. "But Veronica and I have a solution, if you're willing."

He leads us around to the back of the farmhouse where a large RV sits beneath a cluster of oak trees. It's newer, well maintained, with an awning extended to create an outdoor living space.

"It's comfortable," Francisco explains. "Full kitchen, bedroom in the back, and the sofa converts to a bed. We use it when family visits and the house gets too crowded."

I exchange a glance with Ezra who looks about as comfortable with this arrangement as I feel. Sharing an RV means close quarters. Very close quarters.

"The bedroom has a door," Francisco adds quickly, as if reading our minds. "Complete privacy. Though I should mention, the bathroom's been acting up. Plumbing issues we haven't had a chance to fix yet. But you're welcome to use the facilities in the main house anytime."

"It's perfect," I say before Ezra can object. We've driven four hours for this meeting. I'm not letting accommodation issues derail what could be a crucial partnership for the distillery. "We really appreciate your flexibility."

Ezra's jaw is tight but he nods. "Thank you, Francisco. We'll make it work."

Francisco beams, clearly relieved. "Excellent! Veronica's preparing a feast for dinner. She's been cooking all day." He checks his watch. "Why don't you get settled and we'll eat around six? That'll give us time to walk the fields before dark."

After Francisco heads back to the house, Ezra and I stand staring at the RV. The space that seemed adequate when Francisco was describing it now feels impossibly small.

"I can take the sofa," Ezra says finally.

"Don't be ridiculous. You're too tall." I grab my bag from the truck with more confidence than I feel. "Besides, I'm smaller. I'll be fine on the sofa."

I climb the steps into the RV before he can argue, then immediately regret my hasty decision. The space is nice, actually quite comfortable, but it's designed for couples. There's an intimacy to the layout that makes my cheeks burn.

The main area combines kitchen, dining, and living space in an open concept that feels cozy rather than cramped.

But it's the bedroom that makes my breath catch.

Visible through the open door, the bed dominates the small space.

It's a real bed, queen sized, with actual pillows and a thick comforter.

"This is fine," I say aloud, more to convince myself than Ezra, who's followed me inside. "Totally fine. Professional."

I push the door to the bedroom open wider, then immediately stop short.

"Um, Ezra?"

"What?"

"There's no sofa."