Page 2 of Tempted By The Forbidden Mountain Man

"Jake's generous."

"Jake doesn't know what that word means and we both know it." Noah almost smiles. Almost. The man runs a kink club and a business empire with the same controlled energy, and I've never seen him fully commit to a grin. "I want you to meet Sloane Whitfield. She's running the entire event. Anything operational this weekend goes through her. She's your point of contact for crowd management, scheduling changes, vendor coordination."

"Where is she?"

"Fixing something." Talia looks up from her phone. "She's always fixing something. Try the main lodge kitchen. She was having a debate with the caterer about heat lamps twenty minutes ago."

"A debate."

"A polite one." Talia smiles, and unlike Noah, she commits to it fully. "Which means she's winning."

The main lodge kitchen is a professional grade setup behind the Ember Lounge, all stainless steel surfaces and industrial lighting that makes everyone look slightly washed out. Everyone except the woman standing at the far counter with her back to me, one hand on her hip, the other holding a phone to her ear.

"No, I understand that the original order was for twelve. But I confirmed sixteen on September third via email, which I have pulled up right now, and the subject line says 'Updated Heat Lamp Quantity, Please Confirm,' which you did confirm on September fifth at 2:47 PM. So what I need from you is four additional heat lamps delivered to the east terrace by tomorrow at nine, and what I don't need is a conversation about the original order."

She pauses. Listens.

"Perfect. Thank you. I'll have someone meet the delivery at the service entrance." She ends the call. Sets the phone on the counter. Drops her head forward and lets out one long, controlled exhale.

Then she reaches for a to go cup of coffee sitting next to her clipboard, takes a sip, makes a face that says it went cold forty minutes ago, and drinks more of it anyway.

I clear my throat.

She turns around.

My brain does something inconvenient. The kind of full system stall where every trained instinct, every protocol, every carefully maintained professional boundary just goes quiet for about three seconds. Because Sloane Whitfield doesn't just look good in firelight from thirty yards away. Up close, under the unflattering fluorescent buzz of a commercial kitchen, she is the most striking woman I've seen in years.

Brown skin with warm undertones that the bad lighting can't touch. Dark eyes, almost black, framed by lashes that could be natural or could be the kind of thing women spend money on. I genuinely can't tell and I genuinely don't care because they're devastating either way. Full mouth. Sharp cheekbones. The sleek bun I noticed earlier is more complicated up close, a precise arrangement that says she put thought into looking effortless.

She's tall. Five eight, maybe five nine in those heels. The burgundy blazer fits her shoulders perfectly. Below it, curves that the structured cut can't quite contain. She's built with intention, every line of her suggesting a woman who takes up exactly the amount of space she means to.

"Can I help you?"

Professional. Direct. A voice that's been negotiating with vendors all day and has no patience left for people who don't state their business.

"Dante Morales. Security lead for the weekend. Noah Kane sent me to introduce myself."

Something shifts in her expression. A quick assessment, top to bottom. Not checking me out. Reading me. Threat level, competence, whether I'm going to be useful or another thing she has to manage.

"Sloane Whitfield." She extends her hand. Firm grip. Cool fingers. "You're former military."

A statement, not a question. "Marine Corps. Eight years."

"Good. The crowd flow plan I submitted to Jake has two bottleneck points I'm not happy with. One at the north entrance to the bonfire circle and one at the path junction between the Ember Lounge and the cider station. I want to walk them with you tomorrow before the gates open at ten."

"I already identified both."

She stops. Looks at me. Really looks at me, and something behind those dark eyes recalibrates. "You walked my crowd flow plan."

"I walked the terrain. Your plan was in the security brief Jake sent over. The bottlenecks stood out."

"They stood out."

"Path junction narrows to four feet where the cedar posts are set for the string lights. Two way foot traffic during peak hours is going to stack up. Either we reroute to one way flow or we pull two posts and widen the gap by eighteen inches."

Silence. She picks up her coffee. Takes another sip of what has to be room temperature disappointment at this point. Sets it down.

"Who told you about the cedar post spacing?"