Page 1 of Beastly Mountain Man

Chapter One

By the time I reached the turnoff for Fire Mountain Resort, I had already decided exactly how I was going to spend the four days my boss had ordered me away from the set.

Working.

Glenn Sutter, the senior network executive supervising my current production, had called it a cooling-off period. I still had my job and my paycheck. One of our stars had walked out during filming, two others had threatened to follow, and Glenn wanted me physically away from the set while everyone settled down.

I could do that. Nothing in his instructions said I couldn’t review schedules, answer questions, check approvals, or figure out where I should have handled things differently. And there were plenty of places to start.

The dashboard clock read 4:17 as I turned onto the resort road, and the Audi’s tires changed from the smooth hum of highway pavement to the softer crunch of sand scattered over cold asphalt. Hard frost coated the grass along the shoulders and silvered fallen pine needles beneath the trees. The sun had already dropped behind the ridge, leaving streaks of pale apricot over the mountains while the woods below settled into the deep blue-gray of an early November evening.

Outside, the temperature display read thirty-two degrees.

Inside, warm air blew across my black cashmere turtleneck, my camel wool coat was unbuttoned, and the heated steering wheel was making an extremely persuasive argument for modern civilization.

The reservation promised strong Wi-Fi. That was the important part.

A luxury cabin, three nights, room service, and an internet connection capable of handling large media files did not sound like exile. It sounded like a satellite office with better linens.

My navigation screen showed eleven minutes remaining. Good. Eleven minutes until I could get out of the car, open my laptop, and begin making four days away from the set considerably more productive than Glenn had probably intended.

A smile tugged at my mouth. He really should have been more specific.

The road climbed through dense stands of pine before opening onto a broad approach lined with low stone walls and warm path lights already glowing in the fading afternoon. The main lodge appeared around the next curve, three stories of timber, glass, and dark stone tucked against the mountain rather than sitting on top of it. Smoke lifted from a chimney into the still air, and a row of windows reflected the last copper streaks of sunset.

I knew the general area from the summer Get Fired Up! shoot at Cinder Ridge Meadow, but the mountain looked completely different now. In July it had been sunburned grass, dry pine, camera cables, and enough outdoor cooking equipment to make an insurance adjuster twitch. November had stripped everything down to dark trees, frost, stone, and cold.

I parked beneath a covered section near the lodge entrance, shut off the Audi, and finally picked up my phone.

Nothing was on fire, metaphorically or otherwise, and I took that as progress.

Before going inside, I opened the secure production workspace and checked the things that actually required my attention. A revised call sheet had already been posted. Two approval items were waiting where they belonged. A department head had answered a question I’d been planning to chase down myself.

I reviewed the relevant notes, cleared what needed my sign-off, and sent one concise response.

Done. There was no emergency, no frantic phone call, and no reason I should have spent the last forty minutes imagining seventeen different disasters occurring in my absence.

My shoulders loosened by approximately half an inch, which was excellent. At this rate, I’d be relaxed sometime next February.

The cold hit the instant I stepped out of the Audi.

I buttoned my coat and crossed beneath the covered entrance, my leather ankle boots clicking over stone that glittered faintly with frost along the edges. Inside, the lodge wrapped me in warmth and the smells of cedar, baked bread, and something savory drifting from the restaurant beyond the lobby.

The space was upscale without trying too hard to prove it. Massive windows faced the descending slope. Thick wool rugs softened the stone floor. Leather chairs clustered around low tables near a broad fireplace, while discreet signs pointed toward the restaurant and bar, guest services, and a small provisions shop stocked with everything from wine and trail snacks to toothpaste and batteries.

A woman behind the reception desk looked up with an easy professional smile.

“Good afternoon. Welcome.”

“Hi. Caprice Calloway. I have a reservation for one of the upper cabins.”

She turned to her screen. “Of course. Let me pull that up.”

So far, so good. No recognition, no awkward haven’t I seen you somewhere? conversation, and no requirement that I explain why a television producer had been banished to the mountains by her own boss.

The woman glanced at the reservation details. “Three nights, checking out Monday. Upper Ridge.”

“That’s right.”