Page 1 of Pucked Mountain Man (Cold Mountain Nights #6)

ONE

STEVIE

“I still don’t know why you asked me to do this,” I grumble, fussing with the strap of my carry-on. “I’m not a babysitter.”

“You’re not babysitting.” Thatcher smirks. “Though, considering how big of a baby Grady’s being, maybe that’s not far off.”

Brothers.

“Wow.” I stare at him unblinking. “That’s how you talk about your best friend?”

“He may be my best friend and the toughest enforcer in the league,” Thatcher says. “Doesn’t mean he’s not acting like a baby right now.”

“The man tore his ACL. Again,” I remind him. “It’s a season-ending injury.”

He shrugs. “All I know is he gets to hole up in a cabin in Alaska while the rest of us get our teeth knocked out.”

“I’m pretty sure post-surgery rehab isn’t a vacation.”

“Have you seen that place?” Thatcher pulls up a photo on his phone. “‘Cabin’ my ass. The place is quaint as fuck.”

I don’t bother looking. I saw the listing. I already know you could probably fit five of my apartments in it.

That’s what being a pro athlete gets you. Money, glory, and a recovery chalet.

What do I get? CNA paychecks and a reminder that my dream career is a just that. A dream.

“You know he doesn’t need me,” I say. “He has trainers, therapists, chefs?—”

“He doesn’t want an entourage,” Thatcher says. “He wants to recover in Alaska. Where he can nurse his bum knee without having everyone and their mom asking how it’s going.”

“He wants anonymity,” I say. “So naturally, you thought of me.”

“I thought of someone stubborn enough to keep him in line. The fact that you work in the medical field is a perk.”

Heat creeps up my neck. “I’m hardly a physical therapist.”

“You have a good head on your shoulders. And the ability to keep him in line.” Thatcher grins. “You should do that thing you do.”

“What thing?”

“You know. The humming.” He chuckles. “You’ll drive him nuts before the snow does.”

“Wow, thanks for that vote of confidence, Big Brother.”

“I know you can handle this.” He sobers. “But there are a few rules you need to keep in mind.”

“Oh, great. I can’t wait to hear.”

Thatcher pulls up a note on his phone.

“One: he’s cleared for PT only. If he starts pumping iron or chopping wood, tell him to fuck off.”

I bite off a laugh. “I’m sure that would go over well.”

“Two: ice and elevation.”

I roll my eyes. “I know about that.”

“Yeah, but you may have to force it. He’ll lie about pain—don’t let him.”

I nod. “I’ll play good nurse, bad nurse with him until he tells me the truth.”

Thatcher gives a nod of his own. “Three: if he tries to watch the replay of the game where he was injured more than once, turn it off.”

My lips part. “He rewatches the game?”

“He blames himself.” Thatcher’s mouth twists.

I picture Grady alone, jaw clenched in the glow of a screen, punishing himself with slow-motion. Over and over again, waiting to see where he want wrong.

My belly tightens.

“And rule four,” Thatcher continues, his voice takes on an edge, “make sure he keeps his hands to himself.”

I laugh. “Yeah, okay.”

“I’m serious. If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll keep his distance.”

“You don’t have to worry,” I say. “I’m not his type.”

The man goes for models and influencers, for crying out loud.

Thatcher frowns. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Talk down about yourself. You’re beautiful. Smart. And kind of scary when you’re mad.”

“Uh-huh.” Methinks the brother doth talk me up too much. “You don’t have to worry. I have plenty to keep me busy while I’m there.”

“You mean your little singing and humming,” he teases.

My chest tightens. “I’m working on an EP. I need to write something that isn’t half a song on a napkin.”

His expression softens. “You know I love your voice, kid. But?—”

There it is. The but .

“But it’s just a hobby,” I finish for him. “Open mics don’t pay rent.”

He winces. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Silence stretches. I think of Mom, swaying in the kitchen, wooden spoon in hand as we sang Fleetwood Mac too loud and rarely in the same key. She named me for Stevie Nicks, like I was destined for the stage.

I’ve yet to command one like my namesake.

Thatcher clears his throat. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”Before either of us can say more, his phone pings. He glances at the screen. “Your patient is here.”

My stomach flips. I smooth my sweatshirt. “Great. I love that for me.”

The sliding doors open and cold air rushes in and Grady enters.

He’s bigger than I remember. And he seems to be in disguise: hoodie, sweatpants, black beanie over dark hair, and aviators reflecting the concourse lights.

Who does he think he’s fooling? Even half-covered, he’s all shoulders and strength. He’s not the kind of man who can disappear in a room.

And he’s limping, barely, but enough that I can’t unsee it.

“Jones,” Thatcher greets, clapping him into a back-thump hug. “You look like shit.”

“Aw thanks, Pookie.” Grady tilts his toward me. “So this is my keeper.”

“If the shoe fits,” Thatcher smirk. “She’s here to help.”

“To babysit,” I correct.

The corner of Grady’s mouth lifts. “You don’t look like my usual babysitters.”

“Because I’m not seventy and named Dolores?”

“Because you’re wearing boots you could kill a man with.” His lips twitch. “And because you’re already backtalking.”

“Oh, no,” Thatcher mutters. “This is going to be a nightmare.”

“Stevie,” I say firmly, sticking out a hand.

He strips off a glove, warm palm swallowing mine. Callused, solid, holding a beat too long. My pulse stutters.

“Grady,” he says, like I haven’t memorized it from every highlight reel. His thumb brushes my knuckles before he lets go. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

My cheeks burn. I mask it with bravado. “Don’t get too excited. I’m here to stop you from doing anything dumb.”

“Define dumb.”

“Carrying a log the size of your ego or challenging a bear to a footrace.”

His mouth kicks again. Unexpectedly witty. Unexpectedly dangerous.

“Noted,” he says.

A voice crackles over the radio giving a wait time for security. That’s our queue.

“Right. Well. Your seats are set,” Thatcher says. “Grady, they have you in the aisle. Stevie, you’re in the window.”

“I can swap?—”

“Keep the window,” Grady cuts in, dark gaze visible under the glasses for one shattering second.

“Right, well. Don’t drive my sister crazy with your whining,” Thatcher says. “And don’t drive him insane with your humming.”

“I don’t mind humming,” Grady says. “Shall we?”

He tilts his glasses down and his dark gaze settles on me. My heart hitches.

Two weeks. How am I going to spend two weeks pretending this isn’t the sexiest man I’ve ever seen.

I nod, words failing me. We grab our bags and start toward the security line.

Thatcher’s voice follows us. “Don’t forget the rules.”

“I won’t,” I say.

Grady echoes it, low and dangerous. “I won’t.”