Page 2 of Claim Me, Colt (The Mountain Code #2)

Simone

I ran away from my own engagement party.

The thought hits me like a physical blow as I stand dripping on this stranger's hardwood floor, my Oscar de la Renta dress clinging to my body like a second skin.

Who does that? Who abandons three hundred guests, a fifteen-piece orchestra, and enough champagne to float a small yacht just because—

Well, because I discovered the man I’m supposed to marry tongue-deep in a campaign volunteer's mouth in the hotel's utility closet.

And my darling fiancé had the nerve to look at me with dead eyes and say, “Don’t act so surprised, Simone. It’s not like you’re marrying me for love.”

There’s some truth in that.

From the moment I met Jonathan, I knew we’d get married. He’s wealthy, attractive, politically connected, and the man my parents chose for me. I like him well enough. Well, I did before today, anyway.

We have a lot in common, and we never run out of things to talk about.

I thought we’d have a marriage built on a foundation of trust and those family values that Jonathan likes to talk so much about in his political speeches. I certainly didn’t expect to find him feeling up another woman at our engagement party.

But earth-shaking, can’t-live-without-you, passionate love?

No, I wasn’t marrying him for that. I’m not sure that even exists.

The cabin smells like cedar and woodsmoke, nothing like the cloying floral arrangements and imported caviar I left behind at the Willard Hotel.

Everything here is simple, honest—dark leather furniture worn soft with use, bookshelves lined with actual books instead of decorative props, and a stone fireplace that looks like it gets regular use.

And there’s not a single camera or microphone in sight.

Colt moves past me without a word, disappearing into what I assume is the kitchen. His presence fills the space even when he's not in the room—something solid and unshakeable that makes the constant anxiety I've carried for years ease just a little.

I catch my reflection in the dark window and almost don't recognize myself. My carefully styled updo has come completely undone, mascara smudged beneath my eyes, lipstick long gone. The dress is now see-through and torn at the hem.

I look like I've been through a war.

He returns with a thick towel and a bottle of water, setting both on the coffee table without ceremony.

"You're not going to ask questions?" I find myself saying.

He shrugs, his dark eyes steady on mine. "Not my business.”

“There’s really no cell service here?” I ask hopefully.

“Nope.”

I exhale slowly, and it's probably terrible that the thought comforts me more than it should. No texts from campaign managers. No calls from Mother asking if I remembered to smile for the photographers. No updates from the wedding planner about floral arrangements and seating charts.

"Good," I whisper. "I think I want to disappear for a while."

He watches me with unreadable eyes—dark brown, almost black, with lines at the corners that speak of squinting into harsh sunlight. There's something about his stillness that settles me. He doesn't rush to fill the quiet spaces or offer empty reassurances.

"Bathroom's down the hall," he says finally. "Clean towels in the linen closet. I’ll find you something to wear, too. Everything I have will be too big, but at least you’ll be dry and warm."

I hesitate at the kindness, so different from the calculating politeness I'm used to.

"Go on," he adds, voice gentler. "You can fall apart later if you need to."

And somehow, that's exactly what I needed to hear.

The bathroom is small but spotless, with white subway tiles and a clawfoot tub that looks original to the cabin. I catch sight of myself in the mirror above the sink and have to grip the porcelain edge to steady myself.

This morning, I was Senator William Morrison's perfect daughter. Jonathan Blackwood's pristine fiancée. The future Mrs. Blackwood, destined to be a political wife who smiles on command and never has opinions that might upset donors.

Now I'm a muddy, barefoot runaway hiding in a stranger's cabin on a mountain I couldn't name if my life depended on it.

The strangest part? I feel more like myself than I have in years.

I peel off the ruined dress—custom-made, fitted three times, photographed from every angle by Vogue's political correspondent. It hits the floor with a wet slap, and I feel a vicious satisfaction at the sound. Let it stay there. Let it rot.

The shower is basic but the water pressure is perfect, hot enough to wash away the creek mud and the lingering scent of Jonathan's cologne that seemed to cling to everything at the party. I scrub my skin until it's pink, washing off layers of expectation along with the dirt.

When I emerge, pink-cheeked and clean, I find clothes laid out on the bed—a soft flannel shirt in deep blue and a pair of sweatpants that will be enormous on me.

I button up the flannel shirt, enjoying the way it feels against my skin.

The shirt smells like him, like something indefinably masculine that makes my stomach flutter in ways it never did for my fiancé.

Ex-fiancé , I correct myself. Because whatever happened in that ballroom tonight when I grabbed my purse and ran, there's no going back from it.

I slip on the shirt and leave the pants—his flannel falls to mid-thigh on me, soft as silk and warm as an embrace. For the first time in hours, I'm not cold.

I pad barefoot back to the main room, hyper-aware of my bare legs and the way the shirt gapes at the collar. He's built up the fire and is standing with his back to me, broad shoulders moving as he adjusts the logs.

Without his jacket, I can see the definition of muscle beneath his henley, the way his jeans hug powerful thighs. He moves with economic precision, like every motion serves a purpose.

"Thank you," I say quietly. "I cleaned up the mess I made in the bathroom."

He turns, and his eyes sweep over me once—quick but thorough—before meeting my gaze.

"Didn't need to," he says. "But appreciated."

"I may be lost, but I'm not rude." I lift my chin, some ingrained politeness surfacing. "My mother would disown me if I were a terrible houseguest on top of everything else."

Something flickers across his expression. "Your mother know where you are?"

I shake my head. "She's probably still at the party, making excuses to the guests. Telling them I had a headache or pre-wedding nerves." I laugh, but it comes out hollow. "She's very good at damage control." And she cares a lot more about what others think than she does about me.

He hands me a steaming mug of coffee, black and strong. I wrap both hands around it like it's an anchor.

"This is the first time I've been alone in..." I pause, trying to remember. "Years, maybe. Alone with no one watching, I mean."

"No cameras here," he says.

"No judgment either," I add softly, meeting his eyes. "It feels strange. And kind of wonderful."

I lean against his kitchen table, eyes closing as I breathe in the steam from the coffee. It's nothing like the elaborate espresso drinks I'm used to. It’s just piping hot coffee that’s intended to wake you up. Nothing more.

When I open my eyes, he's watching me with an expression I can't quite read.

"What?" I ask.

"Nothing," he says, but doesn't look away. "Just... you look different."

"Different how?"

"More… real."

The word hits me square in the chest. Real . When was the last time someone used that word to describe me?

"I don't think I've been real in a very long time," I admit.

He nods like he understands exactly what I mean.

And sitting in his simple kitchen, wearing his clothes, drinking his coffee while a storm builds outside—I realize I don't want to go back to being the other version of myself.

I want to stay just like this.