Down another hundred.
I closed the laptop and crawled into bed without taking off my makeup. Tomorrow would be better.
Tomorrow had to be better.
DECEMBER 9TH DAWNEDcold and bright.
I woke at eight with a desperate, clawing need to create something—anything—that would turn things around.
Today is the day.
I showered, did my makeup with extra care—full coverage foundation, dramatic lashes, pink frosty lips. Then I changed into my cutest winter outfit: oversized cream sweater, pink leggings, fuzzy ankle boots. Professional camera, phone, and accessories in hand.
Then I got in my car and started driving.
My plan: find "authentic mountain content." Forests and snow and maybe wildlife. Something raw and natural and different from the polished town square footage.
I drove out of town, following winding roads up into the mountains. My GPS was useless—the signal kept cutting out—but I figured I could explore and find my way back.
The views were incredible. Snow-heavy evergreens, mountains rising in the distance, everything blanketed in that quiet gray light of winter. I stopped several times to film—landscape shots, myself standing in the snow with my arms spread wide, pale light gently filtering through the canopy.
Beautiful.
Still not enough.
Fifteen minutes later, I realized I was lost. Completely, hopelessly lost. A narrow private road surrounded by forest, with no idea which direction town was.
Note to self: spontaneous content gathering works better when you actually know how to get home.
Okay. Don't panic. You'll just turn around and—
That's when I heard it.
The sharp, rhythmic crack of an axe splitting wood.
I slowed the car, following the sound around a bend. Through the evergreens, I saw a driveway leading to a large mountain lodge set back in the woodland. The property was stunning—fifty acres at least, from what I could see. Dense forest surrounded the main house, untouched and pristine. Smoke curled lazily from a stone chimney. There was a detached workshop building with large windows, and beyond that, what looked like a converted barn painted deep red.
And in front of the workshop, splitting wood with powerful, rhythmic strokes, was a man.
A shirtless man.
In the middle of December.
In Montana.
My brain short-circuited.
He was tall—easily six-two or six-three—with the kind of build that came from actual work, not a gym. Broad shoulders, trim waist, muscular arms. A solid chest dusted with gray hair that tapered down his stomach in a way that made my mouth go dry.
His hair was striking—silver-gray and distinguished rather than aging, cut short on the sides with slightly more length on top. Even from this distance, genuine silver. Not salt-and-pepper. The kind of color that caught the light even on an overcast day.
He went gray early. Maybe in his thirties. And he owns it.
He swung the tool with an easy competence that made my stomach flip. No wasted motion, no hesitation. Just smooth strokes that sent wood splitting cleanly down the middle. Therhythm was hypnotic—lift, swing, split, toss aside, set up the next log, repeat.
He wasn't gym-perfect. He was real-man strong. The kind that came from living a life that required actual physical capability.
Oh my god.
