Page 13 of Stuck with my Mountain Daddies (Men of Medford #4)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Riley

Judgment.

I should be used to it by now.

It’s part of the deal when you live your life online. The sneers, the snark, the anonymous comments that cut a little too close.

Normally, I could brush it off. Hell, sometimes I even turned it into fuel. Let them doubt me; I’d just rise higher.

But Beckett’s words, “ All that for what? Likes?”

Those stuck.

Now, on my second night trapped in this stupidly picturesque cabin, with ice battering the roof and the smell of pine in the walls, I paced.

Restless. Irritated. Cheeks still hot from a conversation I should’ve shaken off forever ago.

Hollow. Silly. Fake.

I could hear his voice in my head, low and rough, slicing right through the paper armor I usually wore.

Why did it bother me so much?

Why couldn’t I sleep because of those silly little remarks?

He was just another guy who didn’t understand. Another person who thought influencing was all filters and freebies and no substance.

But somehow, his judgment hit in a way that a million Instagram comments never had.

I let out a frustrated breath and rubbed my arms, trying to shake the feeling crawling up my spine. Maybe I should leave tomorrow.

Forget the storm, forget the cabin, forget the whole idea of escaping to some mountain town where I clearly didn’t belong.

I turned, dragging a hand through my hair…

…and froze.

Beckett was there.

Leaning against the doorway in the dark, arms crossed over his chest, watching me in that maddeningly stoic way of his.

My breath caught in my throat.

“Fuck,” I hissed, a hand flying to my chest. “How long have you been standing there?”

His mouth quirked slightly. “Long enough.”

Long enough to watch me unravel. Long enough to know I was rattled by more than just the weather.

I straightened instinctively, lifting my chin like a shield, arms folding across my chest in challenge.

“Enjoying the show?” I shot, my voice sharp, even though I could hear the wobble underneath.

But instead of the sparring match I braced for, the dry remark, the next judgmental jab, the air shifted.

Beckett didn’t smirk. He didn’t roll his eyes or push back.

He just stood there, watching me with a look I couldn’t pin down.

Quiet. Still. His arms loosened slightly across his chest, his brows pulling together. Not in annoyance, but in what appeared to be confusion.

The words slipped out before I could stop them, soft and raw.

“Why do you dislike me so much?”

For a second, all I could hear was the crackle of the fireplace and the snow tapping against the windows.

Beckett’s jaw worked like he was searching for the right words.

His arms dropped fully to his sides. He let out a breath and raked a hand through his dark hair, looking less like the brooding mountain man and more like a man who didn’t know what to do with a conversation like this.

“I don’t,” he said finally, his voice low. “Not really.”

I blinked, caught off guard.

He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking away like it cost him something to admit it.

“I don’t get it.” He motioned vaguely between us. “Your world. People who live for attention. It’s like a different planet to me.”

I swallowed hard, the sting in my chest softening ever so slightly.

“I don’t live for attention,” I murmured, more to myself than to him.

Beckett’s gaze cut back to mine, sharp but not cruel. “It looks that way.”

I huffed out a breath, hugging my arms tighter. “Yeah, well it’s not that simple.”

For a long moment, we stood there, the storm outside our only audience.

Then, to my complete and utter surprise, Beckett gave a small, almost reluctant nod, like maybe he was willing to admit there was more to me than the hashtags he didn’t understand.

Because of that, instead of snapping back, instead of throwing up walls or turning it into a fight, I surprised us both.

I let the truth slip out.

“I didn’t use to be like this,” I said quietly, my voice rough around the edges. “It wasn’t always about followers or brand deals. Before all that, when I was at college and me and Lucy were the best of friends, it was different.”

His brows lifted slightly, the faintest tilt of his head. Clearly, he was listening to every word flying out of my mouth.

I wrapped my arms tighter around myself, sinking onto the edge of the couch. “Yeah, when I was at college I wanted to create a brand. I guess I just didn’t know I would be the brand.” My throat tightened. “And Lucy, she was the only person I could think to reach out to when everything went wrong.”

I glanced up at Beckett, expecting judgment, maybe even boredom. But he was still there, still watching, still listening, his expression revealing only quiet patience.

“And the truth is…” I drew in a breath, my fingers twisting in the hem of my sweatshirt, “I’m lonely. I’ve been lonely for a long time.”

The admission felt like stepping off a ledge. Terrifying and inevitable.

“There’s no camera right now. No followers, no curated version of me. Just me . And I don’t know if I even like who that is anymore. Is that not weird? That I’m only realizing now that I don’t know who I am.”

We remained like that, listening to the only sound. The storm, steady and soft against the roof.

Beckett’s jaw tightened, his eyes flicking down like he was considering his next move carefully. Then he crossed the room and lowered himself into the chair across from me.

“No one really has it figured out, Riley,” he said quietly. “Not out here. Not in LA. Not anywhere.”

My breath caught, not because his words were some grand revelation, but because they were the first thing all day that didn’t feel like a blow.

The sharp lines around Beckett’s mouth softened, the wall in his eyes lowered enough for me to glimpse a depth to him that I hadn’t seen before.

He shifted forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. “I didn’t mean to come at you the way I did,” he murmured. “I don’t get that world. But that doesn’t mean I don’t see you.”

My chest squeezed. I looked at him, really looked, and this time, I saw more than the scowling lumberjack who thought I was shallow and silly.

I saw the man beneath the gruffness. The man who’d chosen a life of quiet over noise, who knew how to be still in a way I’d never mastered.

“You’re not what I expected,” I admitted, a soft laugh escaping.

His mouth curved slightly at the corners. “Neither are you.”

We ended up talking all night.

The hours slipped by unnoticed, the storm outside fading to a whisper as we traded stories.

He told me about growing up in Medford, about why he loves his life in the mountains with his brothers, and his sister living nearby, which was why they all stayed when their parents ventured off to New York.

I told him about LA, about the hunger to be seen, about the cost of it all.

Somewhere along the way, our knees brushed.

Somewhere along the way, his hand found mine.

It wasn’t a grand gesture. No sweeping declaration, no cinematic moment. Only a quiet, solid warmth, his rough fingers wrapping gently around mine.

And surprisingly, I felt steady.

Not fixed. Not whole. But steady .

How the hell had things with Beckett turned around so fast? My head was spinning.