Page 31 of Rescued By the Mountain Man
"I was thinking," he said, fingers tracing idle patterns on my arm, "about that land parcel behind the creek."
"The one with the old barn?"
He nodded. "Could renovate it, maybe. For guests or..." He hesitated, a hint of vulnerability crossing his features. "For your family, when they visit. Or eventually, maybe an office space if we need more room."
The consideration behind his suggestion touched me deeply. My parents had finally visited last month, their initial skepticism about my Montana relocation softening when they saw the life I'd built here. My father and Mack had found surprising common ground discussing property management, while my mother had reluctantly admitted the mountains offered inspiration even she could appreciate.
"It's a good idea," I agreed. "Though I'm pretty sure my mother's still holding out hope we'll change our minds and move to Connecticut."
Mack's laugh rumbled through his chest. "Not happening."
"Nope," I agreed, smiling. "Not happening."
The success ofShelter from the Stormhad exceeded even Jillian's ambitious expectations. Critics praised its ‘raw authenticity’ and ’genuine emotional depth,’ unaware that every word had been infused with my own unexpected journey into love. The three-book deal that followed had cemented my financial security and creative freedom, allowing me to write from wherever I chose without compromise.
"Did you finish the chapter?" Mack asked, referring to my current work-in-progress.
"Almost. My heroine's being stubborn about admitting her feelings."
"Can't imagine where you get your inspiration," he teased, earning a playful swat against his chest.
"Very funny. Though this one's actually going well. The setting makes all the difference." I gestured toward the mountains outlined against the darkening sky. "Hard to have writer's block with this view."
"And the company?"
"Tolerable," I smirked, then laughed at his exaggerated wounded expression. "The company is essential. You know that."
His expression softened into something that still made my heart race, even after months together. "I do."
The simple phrase hung between us, a preview of vows we'd exchange next spring in a meadow not far from where we now sat. Nothing extravagant – just friends and family gathering to celebrate a connection forged in the most unlikely circumstances.
Dusk settled more firmly across the landscape, bringing with it the first stars of evening. Scout stirred at our feet, stretching before settling again with a contented sigh. In the valley below, lights began appearing in scattered homesteads – small beacons of civilization amid the wilderness.
"Sometimes I still can't believe how much has changed," I admitted. "This time last year, I was sitting in my Manhattan apartment, staring at a blinking cursor, convinced I'd forgotten how to write. Now..."
"Now?" Mack prompted when I fell silent.
"Now I understand what I was missing." I leaned into him, drawing strength and giving it in equal measure. "You can't write about life if you're not living it."
His arm tightened around me as the first true darkness of night enveloped our mountain. Below, the valley transitioned from gold to shadow, while above, stars multiplied in breathtaking display.
"Any regrets?" he asked, the question carrying no insecurity, just genuine curiosity.
I considered the life I'd left behind – the crowded city streets, the literary parties, the comfortable solitude of my apartment. All of it had served its purpose, brought me to where I needed to be.
"Not one," I answered truthfully, turning to kiss him as night settled fully around our mountain home. "The best stories aren't written, Mack. They're lived."
And this story – our story – was only just beginning.
