Pin Me Down:Chapter One - The Pin

 Cecelia Sherman has built a brand on the Mountain Man Aesthetic, but she’s about to find out that the wilderness doesn’t care about her follower count. When a sunset hike turns into a freezing disaster, she has to swallow her pride and send a distress signal to the one man who has spent six months tearing her down.

Chapter One

Cecelia

The Pin

If I hear one more person in my comments section tell me that the "Great Outdoors is the best therapy," I am going to throw my MacBook into a literal canyon.

Therapy is supposed to involve a beige couch and a woman named Brenda who tells you your childhood wasn’t your fault. Therapy is not supposed to involve a horizontal sleet storm, a twisted ankle that’s currently pulsing like a strobe light, and a GPS signal that’s been spinning in circles for the last twenty minutes.

"You’ve got this, Cece," I mutter, my voice sounding thin against the howling wind. "It’s all for the brand. Authenticity is magnetic."

I try to adjust my grip on the granite ledge I’m currently huddled against, but my fingers are so numb they feel like frozen sausages. My tripod is somewhere at the bottom of the ravine—a fifty-foot drop I narrowly avoided by catching myself on a gnarled pine root. My phone, miraculously, is still tucked into the pocket of my fleece-lined leggings, but the "Searching for Service" bar at the top is mocking me.

I shouldn’t have come out here alone. I know the rules. I’ve posted the "Safety First" graphics on my feed a dozen times, usually while sitting in a temperature-controlled coffee shop in Portland. But the engagement on my Wilderness Aesthetic series—the one where I visit remote cabins and pretend I’m a rugged mountain woman—has been through the roof. I needed a hero shot. I needed the summit of Black Peak at sunset.

What I got was a cold front that moved in three hours early and a trail marker that apparently decided to go on vacation.

Get it together. I pull my phone out, shielding the screen from the wet snow with my body. One bar. It flickers like a dying candle, then holds. My heart gives a desperate, painful thud against my ribs. I can’t call 911. If I call 911, the local news gets a hold of it. "Influencer Rescued After Being an Idiot" isn't exactly the headline I want for my media kit.

Instead, I open my contacts. My thumb hovers over the one name I swore I’d never touch again.

Finley Warren.

The man who once told me, in front of half the town at the general store, that my hiking boots were "expensive decorative paperweights." The man who has spent the last six months making it his personal mission to point out every safety violation in my photos. The man who looks like he was carved out of a piece of oak and has the personality of a particularly grumpy bear.

Do it, Cece. Better to be humiliated than a popsicle.

I hit the "Share My Location" button and send it. I don't add a message. I don't have the battery life for a "Hey, remember me? I’m dying." I just send the pin and pray that the man who hates my guts is still the best Search and Rescue lead in the county.

The screen goes black a second later. Dead.

I’m alone in the dark.

The minutes stretch into what feel like hours. The cold starts to move past my skin, sinking into my bones. I try to stay awake, try to keep my mind on anything but the sound of the wind, but the exhaustion is heavy. 

I’m just a girl in a designer flannel, leaning against a rock that’s slowly turning into an ice cube.

Just close your eyes for a second.

"Sherman! If you’re asleep, you’d better wake the hell up!"

The voice is like a thunderclap. I bolt upright, my ankle screaming in protest as I jar it against the stone. A beam of white light cuts through the sleet, blinding me.

"Finley?" I croak.

The light stays on me for a second before dropping to my feet. A massive silhouette emerges from the gray blur of the storm. He’s wearing a bright orange SAR jacket, his shoulders wide enough to block out the wind. His face is obscured by a hood, but I can feel the disapproval radiating off him like a physical heat.

"I leave you alone for one weekend," he rumbles, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. "And you manage to find the only ravine in a ten-mile radius that doesn't have a paved path."

He’s close now. He drops to one knee in the slush, his movements efficient and practiced. He doesn't look at my face yet. He goes straight for my leg, his large, gloved hands checking the swelling of my ankle with a clinical precision that still makes my breath hitch.

"I was... I was getting a picture of the sunset over Black Peak," I manage to say, my teeth chattering so hard I’m surprised I can form words.

Finley finally looks up. His eyes are like flint, hard and gray under the brim of his hood. He looks at my damp hair, my shivering frame, and my ruined boots.

"The sunset was four hours ago, Cecelia. Right now, all you’ve found is a very expensive way to get hypothermia."

"You came," I whisper, ignoring the jab.

He scoffs, reaching into his pack and pulling out a heavy, silver thermal blanket. "You sent me a pin in the middle of a Level Four weather advisory. What did you think I was going to do? Heart the message and keep eating my dinner?"

He wraps the blanket around me, his hands lingering on my shoulders for a second longer than necessary. His touch is warm—ridiculously warm. Even through the layers of gear, I can feel the sheer strength of him. It’s infuriating.

"Can you stand?" he asks.

"I think so."

I try. I do. But the second I put weight on my left foot, the world tilts. My knee buckles, and I’m bracing for a face-full of frozen mud when two massive arms catch me. He hauls me against his chest, my boots dangling in the air.

"Guess not," he mutters against my ear.

"I can crawl," I snap, my pride finally waking up. "Put me down, Finley. I’m not a damsel."

"You’re a liability," he counters, his grip tightening. He doesn't put me down. Instead, he shifts his weight, settling me firmly against his chest. "The trail is washed out a mile back. We aren't making it to the trailhead tonight. There’s a ranger outpost half a mile up. We’re staying there."

"With you?"

"Unless you see another Search and Rescue team hiding in the bushes, yeah. With me."

He starts walking. The wind is still screaming, the sleet is still stinging my face, but as he marches through the storm like it’s a light spring breeze, I find myself tucking my head into the crook of his neck. He smells like woodsmoke and rain and something deeply, annoyingly masculine.

This is going to be a long night.

"Don't get any ideas, Sherman," he says, his voice muffled by the wind. "I'm only doing this because I don't want to fill out the paperwork for a dead influencer."

"I hate you," I mumble into his jacket.

"Good," he says, and I could swear I hear a hint of a smirk in his tone. "The feeling is entirely mutual."

We reach the outpost—a tiny, squat cabin made of dark logs—ten minutes later. He kicks the door open, steps inside, and shuts the world out. The silence is sudden and deafening.

He sets me down on a wooden bench near a small cast-iron stove. My body is shaking so hard now that the thermal blanket is crinkling like a bag of chips.

"Stay put," he orders, pointing a finger at me as he sheds his orange jacket.

Underneath, he’s wearing a flannel shirt that’s stretched tight across his chest. He moves to the stove, his hands working quickly to get a fire started. Within minutes, an orange glow starts to flicker behind the glass door.

I watch him. The way his muscles move under the flannel. The way his jaw is set in a hard, permanent line. He’s the most frustrating man I’ve ever met, but as the heat from the stove starts to creep toward me, I realize I’ve never been more glad to see a grumpy lumberjack in my life.

He turns around, catching me staring. He wipes his hands on his thighs and walks toward me, stopping just inches away.

"Pants off," he says.

I blink, my heart doing a very different kind of thud. "Excuse me?"

"They’re soaked, Cecelia. You stay in those, you’ll be sick before morning. I have a spare pair of dry sweats in my bag. Take them off. Now."

He isn't joking. He’s looking at me with that same clinical, professional glare, but there’s something else there now. A flicker of something dark. Something that has nothing to do with search and rescue.

Pins and needles.

I look at his hands. I look at the fire. I look back at him.

"Fine," I whisper. "But turn around."

Finley doesn't turn around immediately. He stays there for a heartbeat too long, his gaze dropping to the curve of my waist before he finally huffs and pivots toward the stove.

"Hurry up," he grumbles. "I’m hungry, and you’re a distraction I didn't plan for tonight."

I reach for the hem of my leggings, my fingers still shaking, but as I look at his broad back, I realize the storm outside was the easy part. The real danger is in here.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

Author Notes: 

I’ve always been fascinated by the "influencer in the wild" trope, but I wanted to give Cece a hero who actually knows his way around a compass. Finley is the ultimate grumpy protector, and seeing him finally get his hands on the woman who’s been haunting his feed for six months was so much fun to write. I hope you’re ready for the frost to start melting.

Are you Team Cece or Team Finley? Let me know in the comments!

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

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Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: April 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix