Chapter Two
Bart
She was smaller than I'd expected—maybe five-three in those ridiculous fuzzy boots, blonde hair in loose waves around her shoulders, blue eyes wide. She was white-knuckling her phone, and for half a second I wondered if she was already filming this confrontation for her next viral moment.
Recognition hit her instantly. I watched it happen: confusion to shock to terror in the span of a heartbeat. Her hand moved to push the door closed.
I stopped it with my palm, kept my voice level and cold. "Don't. You filmed me without permission on my private property. Trespassing and invasion of privacy. We're discussing this right now."
I walked in before she could argue, controlled fury keeping my movements deliberate. The Airbnb looked like a holiday store clearance sale inside—garland and lights and trees everywhere, plus a life-sized cardboard elf in the corner that seemed to be judging me. Good. At least someone in this room had standards.
She backed up, still gripping her device like a lifeline. "I—I can explain—"
"Save it." I took out my phone, opened her video, and set it on the coffee table between us. The sound was off, but the visualssaid everything: me, shirtless, chopping wood, completely unaware I was being filmed. The view counter kept climbing—over a million now, still rising even as we stood there.
My jaw tightened. "Million-plus views and climbing. Shared across every platform. Trending hashtags. My property, my body—posted on social media without my consent. You want to explain that?"
Her face had gone pale beneath whatever makeup she was wearing. She couldn't have been more than twenty-five—way too young to be this self-destructive, though that probably explained the impulsive decision-making.
"I didn't think—"
"No, you didn't think. You saw what you wanted and you took it. Didn't matter that I was on private land. Didn't matter that I might not want to be plastered across the internet. I was convenient, a commodity to you."
The words came out harsher than I intended, but I was too angry to moderate. This was the intrusion I'd moved to Hope Peak to escape. People using me, taking from me, treating me like I existed for their benefit.
My mind flashed back to this morning—peaceful and quiet, the life I'd built here. I'd been in the workshop by seven, working on the walnut dining table commission. Around mid-morning, I'd taken a break to check social media, monitoring local news sources. With Christmas Wishes launching soon, I'd been keeping an eye on community hashtags, gauging interest in local events.
That's when I saw it.
#HopePeak was trending. And the top post was me.
Hot Mountain Daddy. Over a million views and climbing. Comments objectifying every part of me, people trying to identify my location, speculation about who I was. My hard-won quiet life, threatened by some stranger with a camera.
I'd stared at my feed, rage building with each passing second. The video had been filmed this morning—I recognized the workshop in the background, the specific woodpile I'd been splitting, the bent tree branch visible over my shoulder. Someone had been on my land. Trespassing. Filming without permission.
I texted Felicia Townsend, the property manager who handled local vacation rentals. She connected the dots between @CandiCoatedLife and the woman who had rented the cottage and passed me the address without protest. The drive took about twenty minutes, each minute feeding my irritation.
Now, standing in this ridiculously cheerful house, I tried to hold onto that edge.
But she'd broken down crying.
Not the calculated manipulation I'd seen from my ex-wife—this was real panic. Tears streaming, breath hitching, hands trembling. She bit her lower lip, trying to hold it together.
What the hell was wrong with me? I was supposed to stay angry, not notice the curve of her mouth.
