Mountain Grump Boss

The first time Luke growls my name, it isn’t in anger.

I’m supposed to be the solution: the efficiency consultant hired to bring order to his mess of a mountain lodge—color‑coded spreadsheets, labeled storage bins, the whole boring dream. He’s the one with the reputation: the reclusive, broad‑shouldered owner who prefers trees to people and keeps his life as cluttered as the gear piled in his truck.

We make a deal. I stay in the spare room over the garage, rebuild his systems, and pretend not to notice the way his eyes linger when I roll up my sleeves. He pretends he doesn’t hear me humming along with the radio while we wash dishes under the harsh kitchen light.

Snow stacks up outside. Inside, lines blur.

Luke is all rough edges and strict rules—no dating employees, no attachments, no one staying longer than a season. He writes them down in a notebook he keeps on his nightstand, as if ink can keep his life from spiraling.

Then his hand brushes my hip when we squeeze past each other in the narrow hallway. His fingers steady my wrist when I slip on the ice‑slick steps. He lingers a second too long when he tucks a stray curl behind my ear, breathing in like he’s memorizing the scent of my shampoo.

I came up the mountain to sort his chaos into tidy folders.

Instead, every careful boundary we set starts to fray, until the only thing more dangerous than the winter outside is the way Luke looks at me—like the rules were never real, and I’ve been his from the moment I walked through his door.