Page 8 of Tempted By The Forbidden Mountain Man

"I'm good."

"You've been staring at the bonfire for six minutes."

Not the bonfire. "I'm monitoring the perimeter."

"Right. The perimeter that's directly behind the event coordinator."

"Good night, Rivera."

He laughs and clicks off.

By nine thirty the crowd thins. The folk duo finishes their set. Guests drift toward the Ember Lounge for nightcaps or back to their accommodations. The setup crew starts breaking down the cider station for the night, stacking cups, emptying the carafe.

Sloane stays.

She's sitting on a hay bale near the main bonfire, which has burned down to a steady glow. Clipboard on the bale beside her, phone face down. She's pulled her knees up, chin resting on them, watching the embers. The sweater swallows her. She looks smaller than she is.

I should go check the east gate. Rivera's covering the south perimeter. The equipment shed needs locking.

My boots carry me to the bonfire instead.

"Long day." I sit on the hay bale across from her. Close enough to talk without raising our voices over the fire crackle.

"Good day." She lifts her head. Faint circles under her eyes. "Nobody fell off a mountain. Nobody had too much bourbon. Nobody complained about the heat lamps."

"The heat lamps are perfect."

"The heat lamps are perfect because I harassed a vendor into compliance at 2:47 PM on September fifth."

"You keep the timestamps in your head?"

"I keep everything in my head. It's a blessing and a curse." She stretches her legs out, crosses her ankles. The heels are gone again. Thick socks. Something about that detail cracks through the professional veneer, shows me the woman underneath the event coordinator. "What about you? Good first day?"

"Clean. No incidents. Rivera's got the overnight."

"So you're off duty."

"Technically."

"And yet you're still here."

The fire pops. A shower of sparks drifts upward, orange against the black mountain sky. Stars are out, thick and impossible, the way they only get at elevation when there's no light pollution for miles.

"My grandmother used to say October fires are magic." The words come out before my brain approves them. "She'd make us sit outside every night in October around the firepit behind her house in Tucson. All the cousins. She'd tell stories, mostly about my grandfather, who she loved talking about more than she loved talking to him when he was alive. She'd say the fire remembers everyone who's ever sat around it, and if you're quiet enough, you can hear them."

Sloane goes still. Watching me with those dark eyes.

"That's beautiful."

"That's my abuela. She was dramatic about everything." A pause. "I miss her."

"When did she pass?"

"Six years ago. Right before I got out of the service."

The fire settles lower. Someone on the crew turns off the last of the terrace speakers, and the sudden quiet makes the mountain feel closer. Just the fire, the wind in the pines, our breathing.

"I don't talk about her much," I say. I don't know why I'm saying it now. To this woman. At this fire. "She was the one person in my family who didn't define herself by her work. Everyone else, my dad especially, they were their jobs. My dad was a cop. My uncle was a cop. My cousin was Border Patrol. The whole family dinner table sounded like a precinct roll call."