three
Sheryl
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The rhythmic sound penetrates my consciousness before anything else. My throat feels like I've swallowed a ball of sandpaper, and my eyes burn when I try to open them. A hospital room comes into focus.
"You're awake. Good." A nurse appears at my bedside, checking the monitor beside me. "How's the breathing? Any tightness?"
I try to answer but dissolve into a coughing fit instead.
"Take it easy," she says, handing me a cup of water. "Smoke inhalation. Doctor says you're lucky. Another few minutes..."
The memory crashes back. My cabin. The fire. My manuscript.
"My laptop," I croak after sipping the water.
"The fire chief brought this by." She points to a plastic bag on the side table containing my laptop, charger, and a singed notebook. "Said they managed to save a few things from the desk area."
Relief floods through me until another realization dawns. "Where am I supposed to go? The cabin is…" My voice gives out, replaced by another coughing spell.
"Darkmore Medical Clinic," the nurse answers, misunderstanding my question. "Doctor Bertram will be by shortly to check on you. If your oxygen levels remain stable, you might be discharged this afternoon."
After she leaves, I sink back against the pillow and try to organize my thoughts. I need a place to stay. I need to finish my book. I need to call Melanie to explain the delay.
A knock on the doorframe interrupts my mental catastrophizing.
And there he is. The man from last night. My rescuer.
If I thought he was intimidating in the flickering firelight, he's downright overwhelming in daylight.
Taller than I realized with broad shoulders filling out his Search and Rescue jacket.
Dark hair peppered with silver at the temples.
A neatly trimmed beard framing a face that could have been carved from the mountains themselves.
Deep-set eyes that hold mine for a moment before glancing away.
My heart monitor betrays me with a quickened beep.
"Ms. Cabot." His voice is deep, resonant. "How are you feeling?"
Like a character from one of my novels just walked off the page, I think, but say instead, "Better, thank you. And please, call me Sheryl."
He nods once, still standing in the doorway like he's not sure whether to enter. "Alex Brennan. We met briefly last night."
"You saved my life." The words come out with more emotion than I intended. "Thank you doesn't seem adequate."
He shifts uncomfortably. "Just doing my job."
A million questions race through my mind, but before I can ask any of them, he steps aside to allow a doctor to enter.
"Ms. Cabot, I'm Dr. Bertram." She picks up my chart. "Your oxygen levels have improved significantly, but I'd like to keep you under observation for at least twenty four hours. Smoke inhalation can have delayed effects."
"Twenty four hours?" I repeat, panic rising. "I can't stay that long. I need to figure out where I'm going to live, salvage what I can from the cabin, call my agent—"
"The cabin suffered significant damage," Alex interrupts, his voice matter-of-fact. "The bedroom area is destroyed. Main room has extensive smoke and water damage."
Each word hits like a physical blow. "My work," I whisper. "My deadline..."
"We recovered what we could." He gestures to the laptop and a plastic bag of clothes and whatever other belongings they saved. "The property manager has been notified. Insurance adjusters will contact you."
Dr. Bertram looks between us with pursed lips. "Ms. Cabot, my concern is your health. You need monitoring, and frankly, you shouldn't be alone for the next day or so. Is there someone local who could stay with you?"
I shake my head. "I don't know anyone in Darkmore. I just arrived yesterday to work on my book."
"What about the hotels?" I ask, though I already know the answer from my booking research.
"Booked solid," Alex confirms. "Annual Darkmore Mountain Festival starts today."
Dr. Bertram frowns. "Well, we can keep you here if necessary, but—"
"She can stay with me."
The words hang in the air. I'm not sure who's more surprised—me, the doctor, or Alex himself, who looks like the offer escaped before he could catch it.
"I have a guest room," he continues, his tone suggesting he's already regretting this. "And I'm trained in emergency medicine. SAR certification."
Dr. Bertram brightens. "That would be ideal, actually. Just for a day or two of observation."
They discuss my care like I'm not present—oxygen levels, symptoms to watch for, follow-up appointments. Meanwhile, I'm having an internal panic attack at the thought of staying with him. With Alex. Mountain man. Rescue hero. Living romance novel cover model.
He catches me staring and raises an eyebrow. I flush and look away.
"Is that arrangement acceptable to you, Ms. Cabot?" Dr. Bertram finally asks me.
No , a voice in my head screams. He's too handsome, too masculine, too everything. I'll make a fool of myself. I'll say something awkward.
"It's very kind of you to offer," I manage, my voice small. "If you're sure it's not an imposition."
"It's not," he says, though his tone suggests otherwise.
Three hours later, I'm sitting in the passenger seat of his truck, clutching my meager rescued possessions as we wind up a mountain road.
I've never felt more awkward in my life and that includes the time I accidentally sent my freshman creative writing professor a draft of my first sex scene instead of the assigned pastoral poem.
"Thank you again," I say, breaking the silence for the fifth time. "I really appreciate this."
He nods without taking his eyes off the road.
I try again. "Have you lived in Darkmore long?"
"Five years."
"It's beautiful here. The mountains are so... imposing." OMG, stop talking, Sheryl. This is so awkward.
His hands flex on the steering wheel. "Safety briefing. My cabin has specific rules."
The sudden topic change throws me. "Rules?"
"Fire safety rules." His voice has taken on a professional tone. "No candles. No incense. No smoking of any kind. Kitchen use requires supervision until I've assessed your awareness of proper safety protocols."
I blink, caught between offense at the implication and admiration of his thoroughness. "I'm not completely helpless, you know. Last night was an accident."
His jaw tightens. "Accidents are preventable with proper precautions."
"Right," I mutter, looking out the window. He probably thinks I'm a complete disaster. Some helpless girl who can't even handle a candle properly. He's not entirely wrong.
We turn onto a narrow drive leading to a cabin that looks nothing like the rustic rental I'd been staying in.
This is solid, well-maintained, with a metal roof and wraparound porch.
The landscaping is immaculate, with cleared space between the structure and the surrounding forest. It looks exactly like the kind of place a competent mountain man would live.
My stomach flutters as he parks and comes around to open my door. His hand extends to help me down from the high truck cabin, and I take it, trying not to notice the warmth of his palm against mine or how small my hand looks enveloped in his.
"This is it," he says, releasing my hand quickly. "Guest room is on the first floor. I'll show you."
Inside is just as impressive. An open concept with gleaming hardwood floors, vaulted ceilings, and large windows framing mountain views.
But what strikes me most is how orderly everything is.
Books aligned perfectly on shelves. No clutter on surfaces.
A place for everything, and everything in its place.
I immediately feel like an intruder, especially when I notice him watching me with a furrowed brow, as if he's already categorizing all the ways I'll disrupt his perfect system.
"This way." He leads me down a hallway to a simply furnished guest room. "Bathroom is across the hall. Clean towels in the cabinet."
"It's lovely," I say, and mean it. The room is sparse but comfortable, with a queen bed, simple dresser, and reading chair by the window.
"Rest," he says. "Doctor's orders. I'll be in my workshop if you need anything. There's a button by the bed that connects to my phone if there's an emergency."
An actual panic button. I'm not sure whether to laugh or be impressed by his preparedness.
"I won't be a bother," I promise. "I just need to work on my book."
His expression shifts slightly. "The manuscript you were worried about."
"My third novel," I explain. "I have a deadline. It's why I came to Darkmore in the first place. Peace and quiet to finish writing."
"What kind of novels?" He looks genuinely curious, the first real interest he's shown in me rather than my medical status.
Heat crawls up my neck. "Romance," I admit, watching his face carefully for the dismissal I usually see when I tell people what I write.
Something almost like amusement flickers in his eyes. "Romance," he repeats. "Interesting."
Is he laughing at me? I can't tell, but my defensive instincts flare. "It's a legitimate genre with a massive readership and significant cultural impact."
He raises his hands slightly. "I didn't say otherwise."
"You were thinking it," I mutter.
"You don't know what I'm thinking." There's an edge to his voice that makes me shiver.
We stand there, the air between us charged with something I can't name.
He's the epitome of every hero I've ever written. A man who’s capable, mysterious, with hidden depths behind guarded eyes.
The kind of man who populates the fantasies of a twenty-two-year-old virgin who knows the theory of desire but none of the practice.
And for the next twenty-four hours, I'm staying in his house.
My heart gives a terrified little leap that feels suspiciously like exhilaration.
"I should let you rest," he says finally, breaking the moment. He turns to leave, pausing at the door. "If you're hungry later, kitchen's stocked. I'll be back to check your oxygen levels in an hour."
When he's gone, I sink onto the bed, suddenly exhausted from the stress of everything—the fire, the hospital, and now this unexpected arrangement. The pillowcase smells faintly of cedar and pine, clean and masculine.
I pull out my singed laptop, relieved when it powers on without issue. Opening my manuscript, I stare at where I left off—my heroine about to be kissed by a man who knows exactly what he wants.
With trembling fingers, I begin to type.
His kiss tasted of wilderness and certainty. Of danger and safety somehow existing in the same moment.
The words come easily now, fueled by the memory of steel-blue eyes and capable hands.