Page 5 of Trusting the Grumpy Mountain Man (Forbidden In Fall Mountain Man #1)

His eyes drop briefly to my lips, then back to my eyes. The air between us seems to thicken with unspoken tension.

"Like what?" His voice drops lower, almost intimate.

"Like a program with strengths that should be considered alongside its weaknesses." I manage to keep my voice steady despite the hammering of my heart.

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Progress."

He's close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the pine and woodsmoke scent that seems permanently embedded in his skin. Every instinct tells me to step back. I don't move.

"I should finish lunch," I say, though food is the last thing on my mind. "And continue the evaluation."

"Of course." He steps back, the moment broken. "We're doing orienteering this afternoon. Meet at the clearing in twenty minutes."

He leaves without another word, the cabin suddenly too empty and too full simultaneously. I sink back into my chair, sandwich forgotten.

What is happening to me? I came here to evaluate a program, not develop feelings for its ruggedly handsome, infuriatingly competent director. A man who represents everything I've been taught to question about unregulated approaches to youth rehabilitation.

A man who makes me question my own certainties with unsettling ease.

I force myself to finish eating, using the time to rebuild my professional walls.

This attraction is inappropriate and impractical.

In two more days, I'll return to Sacramento with my report, and Jaxon Reeves will become nothing more than a name in an evaluation file.

The thought creates a hollow feeling I refuse to examine.

Outside, the afternoon sun has warmed the clearing. The teens are gathered around Jax, who distributes compasses and maps. His teaching style fascinates me despite myself. He doesn't coddle or over-explain, treating each teen as capable until proven otherwise.

"Ms. Chaffeur will join Torres and Mia for the orienteering exercise," he announces as I approach.

"I'd prefer to observe all groups," I counter, not wanting special treatment.

"Not possible with the terrain." His tone brooks no argument. "Unless you've developed advanced hiking skills since yesterday."

Muted snickers from the teens remind me of my audience. "Fine."

"Partners stay within sight of each other at all times," Jax instructs the group. "Find all five checkpoints, return by sunset. Each checkpoint has provisions you'll need for dinner."

"What if we get lost?" Kevin asks nervously.

"Don't." Jax's answer is simple. "But if you do, stay put and use your emergency whistle. Three short blasts, remember?"

They nod solemnly. This is clearly a test they've been prepared for.

"Ms. Chaffeur." Jax hands me a small pack. "Essentials inside. Stay with your partners."

Our fingers brush during the exchange, sending an electric current up my arm. I pull back too quickly, nearly dropping the pack. If he notices my reaction, he doesn't show it.

"Thanks," I mutter, slinging it over my shoulder.

The afternoon unfolds in a series of small revelations.

Tyler is a natural navigator, confidently leading our group between checkpoints.

Mia, initially standoffish, gradually shares her story when I express genuine interest. Foster care since eight.

Three placements in two years. A shoplifting charge that escalated when she panicked and shoved a security guard.

By the fourth checkpoint, I've developed blisters despite borrowing proper hiking boots this time. The teens notice my limping but say nothing, silently adjusting our pace. When we stop for water, Mia wordlessly offers me a bandage from her pack.

The simple kindness touches me more than it should. These kids aren't the hardened delinquents described in their files. They're survivors, just as Jax said. Adapting to whatever circumstances they face.

Including me.

The sun hangs low as we return to camp, painting the pine trees in amber and gold. The temperature has dropped noticeably since this afternoon, my breath now visible in small puffs. Aspen leaves drift down like golden coins, catching the slanting light.

"Ms. Chaffeur." Jax approaches as I'm putting away my borrowed hiking gear. "I need to gather some materials for tomorrow's lesson on wilderness food preservation. Could use an extra pair of hands if you're not too tired from the hike."

I should be exhausted. My feet ache, and I've been documenting observations all day. But something in his tone—less command, more invitation—makes me nod.

"What are we gathering?"

"Wild apples, acorns, rose hips. Whatever's left before the first hard frost hits." He hands me a canvas bag. "Won't take long."

We head away from the main camp, following a different trail than the teens took.

The forest has transformed since I arrived three days ago.

Or maybe I'm just seeing it differently now.

The aspens blaze brilliant yellow against the evergreens, their leaves trembling in the cooling breeze.

Oak leaves glow crimson and burnt orange in the fading light.

The air carries that distinctive autumn scent—woodsmoke, pine, and the earthy sweetness of decomposing leaves.

My feet crunch through the carpet of fallen foliage as we walk. The sound is somehow both melancholy and comforting, a reminder that everything has its season.

"There." Jax points to a gnarled apple tree about fifty yards off the path, its branches heavy with small, twisted fruits. "Wild apples aren't pretty, but they're perfect for teaching preservation techniques."

We work in companionable silence for a few minutes, gathering the misshapen fruits. Jax moves with efficient strides, selecting certain apples and leaving others. His hands are sure and capable, testing each one before adding it to his bag.

"Why those specifically?" I ask, watching him reject a perfectly round apple in favor of a scarred, ugly one.

"Firmness. Lack of rot." He hands me one to examine. "The prettiest ones are often the first to spoil. Same principle applies to a lot of things in life."

I turn the apple in my hand, noting the deliberate metaphor. "Is that what you're teaching them? To look past surface appearances?"

"Partly." He reaches for a higher branch, his flannel shirt pulling tight across his shoulders. A shower of golden leaves cascades down around him. "Mostly teaching them to trust their own judgment. To make decisions based on what actually matters instead of what they've been told should matter."

There's an edge to his voice—not quite bitterness, but something close to it. I've seen his dedication to the teens, but this feels more personal. More raw.

"Someone didn't trust your judgment once," I observe quietly, the insight arriving fully formed.

He stills, hand hovering over an apple. For a long moment, the only sound is the whisper of wind through the autumn leaves and the distant call of a crow. Then he lowers his arm and turns to face me, his expression unreadable.

"I've seen what happens when the system makes decisions based on policy instead of people." He sets down his bag, clearly signaling the personal topic is closed. "These kids deserve better than that."

The deflection is smooth but obvious. There's a story there, something that drives him, but he's not ready to share it. The realization creates an odd ache in my chest—a desire to know him better, to understand what shaped the man standing before me in the golden autumn light.

"They're lucky to have you," I say instead of pushing.

"They'd be luckier if people like you fought for programs that work instead of shutting them down." There's no accusation in his tone, just weary acceptance.

The words sting because they're fair. "I'm trying to see clearly," I tell him. "That's all I can promise."

He studies my face for a long moment, and I'm suddenly aware of how isolated we are out here. The sounds of camp have faded to nothing. It's just us, the fading light, and the quiet settling of autumn all around.

"You're doing better than most," he finally says, his voice softer. "Better than I expected."

"Was your bar really that low?" I attempt levity to cut through the intensity building between us.

"You showed up in impractical shoes with a tablet full of regulations." A hint of a smile touches his lips. "My expectations were... modest."

"And now?"

The question hangs in the cooling air. His eyes hold mine, and something passes between us—awareness, attraction, possibility. The space between us feels suddenly charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.

"Now you've got leaves in your hair," he says quietly, reaching toward me.

I freeze as his fingers brush my temple, gently extracting a small twig caught in my ponytail. The touch is brief but electric, sending warmth cascading through me despite the autumn chill. Our eyes lock, his hand still raised near my face.

Neither of us moves. Neither of us breathes.

Then his hand drops, and he steps back, the moment fracturing. "Getting dark," he says, his voice rougher than usual. "We should head back."

"Right." I clutch my canvas bag like a lifeline, grateful for something to do with my hands. "The teens will be waiting."

We gather our bags in silence, but it's different now. Charged. Aware. Every accidental brush of hands as we work sends sparks up my arm. When he helps me over a fallen log, his hand at my elbow lingers a fraction too long.

The walk back to camp feels both endless and too short. The forest darkens around us, temperature dropping as the sun sinks below the mountain ridge. My breath comes in visible puffs now, and I'm acutely conscious of Jax's warmth beside me, the bulk of him blocking the wind.

"You're shivering," he observes as we near the camp clearing.

"I'm fine." But my teeth chatter slightly, betraying the lie.

Without a word, he shrugs out of his flannel overshirt and drapes it around my shoulders. The fabric still holds his body heat and that scent I'm coming to associate with him—pine, woodsmoke, and something indefinably masculine.

"Jax, you'll freeze—"

"I run hot." He cuts off my protest. "And you need it more than I do."

The simple gesture, the casual way he gives up his own comfort for mine, does something to my carefully maintained professional walls. I pull the shirt tighter around myself, surrounded by his warmth and scent.

As we emerge from the trees, the teens are gathered around the outdoor fire pit, their chatter and laughter carrying across the clearing. Smoke rises into the darkening sky, and the flames paint their faces in warm, flickering light.

"There you are!" Mia calls out. "We were about to send a search party."

"Just gathering supplies for tomorrow." Jax hefts his bag. "Ms. Chaffeur was kind enough to assist."

Tyler's eyes flick between us, taking in my borrowed shirt with barely concealed amusement. "Looks like you got cold, Ms. Chaffeur."

"Mountain temperatures drop fast after sunset," I say, striving for a professional tone despite the knowing looks being exchanged among the teens.

Jax's hand briefly touches the small of my back as he guides me around a root in the dimming light. The touch is practical, necessary, and completely appropriate. It also sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the cold.

"Dinner in fifteen," he calls to the group, his voice back to its usual authoritative tone. "Kevin, you're on cleanup duty tonight."

The teens disperse to their tasks, leaving us standing at the edge of the firelight. Jax turns to me, and in the dancing shadows, his eyes are impossibly blue.

"Keep the shirt tonight," he says. "It'll be cold in the cabin."

Before I can respond, he strides toward the mess cabin, leaving me standing alone in his oversized flannel, my canvas bag full of wild apples, wondering when exactly this stopped being a simple evaluation and became something far more complicated.

I look down at the misshapen apple still clutched in my hand. Sometimes the prettiest option isn't the best one, Jax had said. And sometimes the most unexpected ones are exactly what you need.