520,145.
528,763.
I sat there watching the numbers rise, feeling the validation pour in, riding the high that came from going viral. This was what I'd needed. This was what I'd been desperately chasing.
This is it.
People weren't talking about the breakup anymore. They weren't making "Candi has no flavor" jokes. They were talking about Hot Mountain Daddy. My video. My shot.
They were following me again.
I was winning.
That small voice screaming this was wrong got quieter with every hundred likes.
I'll just leave it up for a while. Just until things stabilize. He probably won't even see it. And if he does... I'll deal with it then.
But the video had 100,000 views now. It was trending. It was working.
Too late now.
I drove back to the cottage feeling lighter than I had in weeks.
BY 8 PM, THE VIDEOhad 1.2 million views.
Brands were sliding into my DMs asking about partnerships. People were begging for more Hope Peak content, more Mountain Daddy updates, more everything. Someone had made a TikTok compilation using my video. Another person had created a "Hot Mountain Daddy Appreciation Thread" on Twitter. A third had photoshopped him into various romantic scenarios—silver fox Santa, mountain prince, wilderness husband.
It was insane.
I was lying on the couch scrolling through comments—trying to ignore the increasingly frantic requests for his identity, his location, his relationship status—while Mariah Carey warbled about all she wanted for Christmas through my laptop speakers.
Then someone knocked on my door.
Not a polite knock.
A loud, aggressive, "open this door right now" kind of knock.
I jumped, my phone clattering to the floor.
Who the hell—?
I scrambled off the couch and walked to the door, peering through the peephole.
My stomach dropped straight through the floor.
Standing on my doorstep was the man from the video.
Even through the fish-eye distortion, I recognized him instantly. That silver-gray hair. Those broad shoulders. The strong jaw shadowed with stubble.
He was fully dressed now—heavy jacket, flannel, work boots—but there was no mistaking who he was.
The man I'd filmed without permission.
The man whose shirtless video had just saved my failing career.
And from the rigid set of his shoulders and the hard line of his mouth, he knew exactly what I'd done.
"I know you're in there," he said, voice firm and carrying clearly through the door. "We need to talk. Now."
