Page 7 of Found by the Mountain Man (Darkmore Mountain Search and Rescue #4)

six

Connor

I wake before dawn, like I have every day for the past fifteen years. What's different this morning is the tight knot of guilt sitting heavy in my chest.

I'm slumped in the kitchen chair where I finally fell asleep sometime after three AM, my neck kinked at an uncomfortable angle.

Across the cabin, Mavis is still curled up on the couch, her dark hair spread across the pillow, one arm trailing off the edge.

She looks peaceful in sleep, younger somehow, and beautiful enough to make my chest ache.

Beautiful enough to make me forget every professional boundary I've ever sworn to uphold.

Christ, what did I do?

The memories come flooding back—her hands on my skin, the taste of her on my tongue, the way she felt wrapped around me, tight and perfect and mine. The way she looked at me afterward, like I'd given her something precious instead of taking advantage of a vulnerable situation.

Because that's what I did, isn't it? Took advantage. She's a rescue victim, twenty years younger than me, dealing with trauma and hypothermia and God knows what else. And I, the man who was experienced, trained, supposedly responsible, couldn't keep my hands off her.

I scrub my palms over my face, trying to erase the images, but they're burned into my memory. The sound she made when I first touched her. The way her back arched when I used my mouth on her. How she whispered my name like a prayer when she came apart in my arms.

I need coffee. And a cold shower. And possibly a lobotomy to forget how perfect she felt beneath me.

The storm is breaking.

The coffee finishes brewing, and I pour myself a cup, wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic. The heat feels good against my cold palms, grounding me in something other than the chaos in my head.

"Morning."

Her voice, soft and sleep-roughened, makes me stiffen. I don't turn around immediately, needing a moment to compose myself before facing her.

"Morning," I reply, keeping my voice carefully neutral. "Coffee's ready if you want some."

"Thanks."

I hear her moving around behind me—the rustle of blankets, her bare feet on the wooden floor.

When I finally turn, she's standing by the couch wearing my t-shirt and not much else, her hair mussed and her eyes still heavy with sleep.

She looks like a woman who's been thoroughly loved, and the sight of her hits me like a punch to the gut.

"How are you feeling?" I ask, falling back into the safe territory of medical assessment. "Any lingering effects from yesterday?"

"I'm fine. Sore in a few places, but fine."

The double meaning in her words isn't lost on me. She's sore from what we did together, and we both know it. Heat flashes through me at the reminder, followed immediately by another wave of self-recrimination.

"Good," I manage. "That's good."

She moves to the kitchen counter, accepting the cup of coffee I pour for her. "Connor," she starts, her voice gentle but determined. "About last night."

"Last night was a mistake," I cut her off, the words coming out harsher than intended. "You were vulnerable. I took advantage. It won't happen again."

The hurt that flashes across her features is like a knife to the chest, but I force myself to maintain my distance. This is for the best. For both of us.

"A mistake," she repeats quietly, setting down her coffee cup. "Is that really what you think?"

"It's what I know." I turn away from her, unable to keep looking at the pain in her eyes. The pain I put there. "You're dealing with trauma. What happened between us was a natural response to a life-threatening situation. Nothing more."

"Bullshit."

The quiet vehemence in her voice surprises me. I turn back to find her watching me with those dark eyes, her chin lifted in defiance.

"Excuse me?"

"I said bullshit." She crosses her arms, the movement pulling my t-shirt tight across her breasts. I force myself to look at her face. "Don't you dare minimize what happened between us by calling it some kind of trauma response."

"Mavis."

"No." She steps closer, and I have to fight the urge to back away. "You don't get to make love to me like that, like I'm the most precious thing you've ever touched, and then dismiss it as a mistake in the morning."

I suck in a breath. She’s right. It wasn't just sex, not just physical release, but something deeper. Something that scared the hell out of me.

"It doesn't matter," I say finally. "When this storm passes, you'll go back to your life. Your career. Your world. And I'll stay here."

"What if I don't want to go back?"

The quiet question stops me cold. She's looking at me with such honesty, such hope, that I have to look away.

"You will," I tell her. "Trust me. This place, this life—it's not for you."

"How do you know what's for me?" There's a challenge in her voice now, frustration bleeding through. "You've known me for two days."

"I know enough." I move to the window, staring out at the storm.

The snow is definitely lighter now, more manageable.

"I know you're passionate about your work.

I know you have a mission, something important you're trying to accomplish.

I know you're brave enough to risk your life for what you believe in. "

"And?"

"And that kind of passion, that kind of purpose, it belongs out there, in the world. Not hidden away in a cabin in the mountains."

Silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken words. When she finally speaks, her voice is softer, more thoughtful.

"What if you're wrong? What if the world isn't where I belong?"

"Mavis."

"Don't," she interrupts softly. "Don't shut down the conversation before it even starts. Just... consider the possibility that maybe we both found something worth keeping."

It's a dismissal, gentle but firm, and I recognize the tactical retreat. She's giving me space to think, to process, to maybe come to my senses.

The problem is, my senses are exactly what got me into trouble in the first place. Around Mavis Aldana, logic and rationality don't stand a chance against the pull of attraction and something that feels dangerously close to love.

I move to the radio, tuning through static until I find the emergency frequency. Jake's voice comes through clearer than it has since the storm started.

"Visibility improving on the valley floor. Road crews are making progress on the main routes. Connor, if you're monitoring, respond."

I grab the handset. "Connor here, Jake. Go ahead."

"Good to hear from you, man. How are you and our photographer holding up?"

"We're fine," I manage. "Cabin's holding up well. No medical concerns."

"Glad to hear it. Listen, storm's breaking faster than predicted. We should be able to get a team up to you by this afternoon. Probably around three or four, depending on how quickly we can clear the access road."

This afternoon. A few hours from now, this impossible situation will be over. Mavis will be back in town, then on her way back to her real life. And I'll be alone again, like I was before she fell through that ice and turned my world upside down.

It's what I want. What needs to happen. Right?

"Copy that, Jake. We'll be ready."

"Sure thing. We'll see you this afternoon. Base out."

I set the radio down and turn to find Mavis watching me from the kitchen, her expression carefully neutral.

"This afternoon," she says quietly. It's not a question.

"Yeah. Storm's breaking. They can get through to us now." Guilt rolls in my gut. "Mavis?"

"It's fine," she says without turning around. "I knew this was temporary. We both did."

But it doesn't feel fine. It feels like something precious is about to slip through my fingers, and I'm too much of a coward to reach out and catch it.