Page 7 of Tempted By The Forbidden Mountain Man

Talia:

Dante's good right? Jake's best guy.

Me:

Very thorough.

Talia:

Me:

Don't.

Talia:

I didn't say anything!

Me:

Your emoji said plenty.

I pocket my phone. Take a breath. The mountain air tastes like pine and cold clarity, and I need every ounce of clarity available because I have sixty three hours left on this contract. Sixty three hours to prove I belong at this level. Sixty three hours during which I absolutely cannot be distracted by a man who catches me when I stumble, brings me coffee without being asked, and looks at me with dark eyes that make me forget I chose my career over this exact feeling nine months ago.

Marcus was safe. Marcus was comfortable. Marcus was the warm body next to mine who never once made my brain short circuit from a single touch through fabric.

Dante Morales held me for four seconds, and my hands are still shaking.

The smart move is obvious. Do the job. Run the event. Keep every interaction professional, clipped, bounded by clipboard logistics and earpiece check ins. Go home to Vancouver with a successful weekend on my portfolio and a reference from Noah Kane that opens doors I've been knocking on for two years.

The smart move has never felt this hard.

From the equipment shed, I hear the metallic tear of gaffer tape being pulled from a roll. He's coming back. He's going to tape down the cable, probably perfectly, probably with the efficient precision he does everything, and then we'll move on to the next item on my checklist.

Sixty-three hours.

I can survive sixty-three hours.

CHAPTER THREE

DANTE

Day one of the Autumn Harvest goes off without a single problem, which means I spend most of it waiting for one.

Guests start arriving at ten. Couples, mostly. A few friend groups. Some Club Crimson members I recognize from regular events, dressed down in expensive flannel like they're cosplaying as mountain people. The string lights look right in the morning sun. The cider station flows smoothly since we angled it forty five degrees. Both bottleneck points cleared thanks to the cedar posts we pulled at seven AM, and Sloane's crew restrung the lights so clean you'd never know they moved.

She's everywhere. That's the thing about watching her work. She doesn't stand in one place and delegate. She moves through the event with her clipboard tucked under her arm, adjusting a lantern here, redirecting a vendor there, crouching to smooth a wrinkle in a tablecloth while simultaneously answering her phone. At one point she kicks off her heels behind the cider station, walks barefoot across the cold grass to fix a sign that's listing in the breeze, then steps back into the heels without breaking her phone conversation.

Nobody notices. That's the whole point. She makes it invisible.

By four PM the bonfire demonstration is underway. A local fire keeper named Claude is showing a group of twelve how to build a proper mountain fire, layering kindling, explaining airflow, talking about how different woods burn at different temperatures. The guests are into it. Phones out, filming, asking questions. Claude clearly loves an audience.

The sun drops behind the western ridge around five thirty, and the temperature falls with it. Lanterns come on across the terrace. The folk duo starts their set on the upper stage. From my position near the north entrance, I can see the whole layout.

Sloane is at the edge of the bonfire circle, standing alone for the first time all day. Arms wrapped around herself against the cold. She changed at some point during the afternoon, traded the blazer for a chunky knit sweater the color of burnt honey that hangs off one shoulder. Hair still up, but looser now, a few pieces escaping around her face.

She's watching the fire. The light does something to her skin, turns it warm amber, catches the line of her jaw, the curve of her neck where the sweater slips. She looks tired. She looks beautiful. She looks exactly the way a person looks when they've poured everything they have into a thing and now they get to watch it work.

My earpiece crackles. "Morales, you want me to take the nine PM shift?" That's Rivera, the other security guy Jake brought on for the weekend. "You've been at it since six."