Page 27

Axel

F rasier Mountain was used to wild things. But not like her.

I was halfway through my protein bar, sweat dripping down my spine, when my radio crackled.

“Axel, you copy? We’ve got a situation out past the south ridge—someone parked an Airstream in the open field. Looks like they’re filming. Ignored two warnings. Weather’s rolling in fast.”

Great.

I tossed the weights I had, climbed into my truck, and floored it down the service road. The sky above was already turning gunmetal. Thunder grumbled over the ridge.

Fifteen minutes later, I crested the hill—and slammed the brakes.

Silver trailer. Middle of the damn field. And standing on top of it? A woman.

Barefoot. Arms stretched to the sky. Wind was whipping her hair around like she was trying to summon the lightning.

What in the hell—

I jumped out and cupped my hands. “Hey! Get down from there!”

She turned, hair in her face, wearing a mic and a GoPro strapped to her chest. “You’re ruining my shot!”

“You’re gonna get fried!”

She didn’t move. I didn’t think. I climbed the ladder up the back of the trailer, just as a crack of lightning split the sky.

I lunged, wrapped my arms around her, and tackled her to the roof. A second later, a tree branch came sailing past where she’d been standing.

She blinked up at me. “Well. That was dramatic.”

“You nearly got yourself killed.”

“You nearly broke my ribs.”

“You’re welcome.”

When I hauled her off the roof and into my truck, she was still filming.

“Name?” I asked.

“Lark Bennett,” she said, brushing her gorgeous, wild red hair off her face. “You always tackle women off rooftops, or am I just a special case?”

I growled. “Next time you want to fly into danger, don’t do it on my mountain.”

She smirked. “Then maybe you shouldn’t look so good while rescuing people.”