Each word hits like a physical blow. "My work," I whisper. "My deadline..."

"We recovered what we could." He gestures to the laptop and a plastic bag of clothes and whatever other belongings they saved. "The property manager has been notified. Insurance adjusters will contact you."

Dr. Bertram looks between us with pursed lips. "Ms. Cabot, my concern is your health. You need monitoring, and frankly, you shouldn't be alone for the next day or so. Is there someone local who could stay with you?"

I shake my head. "I don't know anyone in Darkmore. I just arrived yesterday to work on my book."

"What about the hotels?" I ask, though I already know the answer from my booking research.

"Booked solid," Alex confirms. "Annual Darkmore Mountain Festival starts today."

Dr. Bertram frowns. "Well, we can keep you here if necessary, but—"

"She can stay with me."

The words hang in the air. I'm not sure who's more surprised—me, the doctor, or Alex himself, who looks like the offer escaped before he could catch it.

"I have a guest room," he continues, his tone suggesting he's already regretting this. "And I'm trained in emergency medicine. SAR certification."

Dr. Bertram brightens. "That would be ideal, actually. Just for a day or two of observation."

They discuss my care like I'm not present—oxygen levels, symptoms to watch for, follow-up appointments. Meanwhile, I'm having an internal panic attack at the thought of staying with him. With Alex. Mountain man. Rescue hero. Living romance novel cover model.

He catches me staring and raises an eyebrow. I flush and look away.

"Is that arrangement acceptable to you, Ms. Cabot?" Dr. Bertram finally asks me.

No, a voice in my head screams. He's too handsome, too masculine, too everything. I'll make a fool of myself. I'll say something awkward.

"It's very kind of you to offer," I manage, my voice small. "If you're sure it's not an imposition."

"It's not," he says, though his tone suggests otherwise.

Three hours later, I'm sitting in the passenger seat of his truck, clutching my meager rescued possessions as we wind up a mountain road. I've never felt more awkward in my life and that includes the time I accidentally sent my freshman creative writing professor a draft of my first sex scene instead of the assigned pastoral poem.

"Thank you again," I say, breaking the silence for the fifth time. "I really appreciate this."

He nods without taking his eyes off the road.

I try again. "Have you lived in Darkmore long?"

"Five years."

"It's beautiful here. The mountains are so... imposing."OMG, stop talking, Sheryl. This is so awkward.

His hands flex on the steering wheel. "Safety briefing. My cabin has specific rules."

The sudden topic change throws me. "Rules?"

"Fire safety rules." His voice has taken on a professional tone. "No candles. No incense. No smoking of any kind. Kitchen use requires supervision until I've assessed your awareness of proper safety protocols."

I blink, caught between offense at the implication and admiration of his thoroughness. "I'm not completely helpless, you know. Last night was an accident."

His jaw tightens. "Accidents are preventable with proper precautions."

"Right," I mutter, looking out the window. He probably thinks I'm a complete disaster. Some helpless girl who can't even handle a candle properly. He's not entirely wrong.

We turn onto a narrow drive leading to a cabin that looks nothing like the rustic rental I'd been staying in. This is solid, well-maintained, with a metal roof and wraparound porch. The landscaping is immaculate, with cleared space between the structure and the surrounding forest. It looks exactly like the kind of place a competent mountain man would live.