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CHAPTER

TWO

EVEREST

The knock at the door doesn’t make sense. It was actually more of a thud than a knock.

No one knocks out here. People don’t come up the mountain unless they’re lost, crazy, or looking for trouble—and I’ve got no patience for any of the three.

I’m elbow-deep in grease from fixing the generator when I hear it.

Just one hard knock, then silence. I freeze, wrench in one hand, sweat dripping down my temple.

Could be a tree branch in the wind. Could be a black bear nosing around. Could be?—

Another knock. Softer this time.

I wipe my hands on an old towel and head for the front of the cabin, heart beating a little faster. It’s the middle of the damn day in the middle of the damn forest. No one should be here.

When I swing open the door, I don’t expect to see a woman .

She’s beautiful— staggeringly so—even though she looks like hell. Her hair’s stuck to her face with sweat, her cheeks flushed a dangerous red, her blouse clinging to her like she just walked through a storm. Her eyes meet mine for only a second, wide and glassy.

Then she collapses straight into my arms.

“Whoa—shit!” I catch her instinctively, my wrench clattering to the floor. Her full weight slumps against me. She’s deadweight, her body burning hot like a furnace. “Hey. Hey—can you hear me?”

Nothing. Just a soft moan against my chest and the terrifying heaviness of someone who’s not all there .

I scoop her up and bring her inside, kicking the door shut behind me. My heart’s hammering. I lay her gently down on the cool wood floor and crouch next to her, brushing the hair from her face.

She’s not just overheated—she’s cooked . Skin flushed, lips dry and cracked, pulse fluttering way too fast under my fingers.

“Goddamn it,” I mutter, launching to my feet. “Okay. Okay, Everest, think.”

I grab the old landline and punch in the number for emergency services. Of course, the dispatcher reminds me what I already know— thirty minutes at best with the road conditions and the heat.

She might not have thirty minutes.

“Just get someone here,” I bark and hang up.

I’m already moving. I grab the cooler from the kitchen, yank out the beer, and dump the ice into a bowl. Towels. Water. Fan.

Back in the living room, I kneel beside her and soak a towel, pressing it gently to her forehead, then the sides of her neck. Her skin hisses under the contact like it’s grateful.

“Come on,” I say under my breath, wiping her arms, her collarbone, the inside of her elbows. “Don’t check out on me now.”

She stirs slightly, lips parting in a dry whisper I can’t make out.

“I’ve got you,” I say, more to steady myself than anything else.

I press the cold towel to the side of her neck and feel her shiver beneath my fingertips.

It's a good sign—her body’s responding. Her skin is still burning up, but the chill makes her lips twitch slightly, and her lashes flutter against her cheeks like she's fighting her way back to me.

Back to consciousness. I soak another towel in the bowl of ice water and lay it across her chest, just below the curve of her collarbone, careful, respectful.

God, she's beautiful.

Even like this—half-conscious, flushed with heat and dust smudged across her cheek—she’s the most stunning woman I’ve seen in… I don’t know how long. Years, maybe. Her lips are full and parted, her throat arched so delicately, like something carved, her skin golden with sunlight and heat.

I shift the towel lower and try not to look too long.

Focus, Everest.

You’re helping her. That’s all this is.

But when my fingers brush against the damp edge of her blouse as I tuck another compress beneath the fabric, I feel a jolt. Like a live wire snapping loose in my chest. I haven't touched a woman in years. Not since I left town. Not since I chose solitude over chaos, silence over disappointment.

I didn’t realize how starved I’ve become.

Not just for touch—but for connection . For the scent of someone else’s skin in my space. For softness. For warmth that isn’t coming from the sun or a fireplace. For her —whoever she is. Some stranger who walked through hell and found her way to my porch. Like fate is telling me she belongs here.

I should be praying for the ambulance to get here. I should be checking her vitals again. I should want her to leave as soon as she’s well enough—because that’s the whole point of this life I’ve built out here. No visitors. No distractions. No vulnerability.

And yet…

I catch myself patting her down with towels just so that I can brush my fingers against her smooth skin. I feel my eyes jolting back and forth, trying their best not to look at the hard buds hidden by her shirt just underneath her bra. It’s so wrong, but looking at her feels so right.

I run a towel along the inside of her wrist, watching the way her fingers twitch. Her skin is soft despite the dirt. There’s a faint scar on the back of her hand—like maybe she works with them, builds things, fights for something. I wonder who she is. What brought her to my house.

I tell myself it’s curiosity. Maybe even concern.

But the way my eyes drift to her parted lips tells me otherwise. I exhale sharply and lean back, scrubbing a hand down my face. Get it together.

You’re here to help her , I tell myself over and over. Still, I glance at her again. Her chest rises and falls in slow, steadier rhythm now. Her mouth moves slightly, like she’s dreaming. I’m ashamed at how gorgeous I find this complete stranger who has fallen into my arms.