Page 1

Chapter 1

A Mountain Detour

I grip my steering wheel tighter as snowflakes fall more heavily on my weekend escape to Angel's Peak. This was supposed to be a simple two-day retreat from my chaotic Denver hospital schedule—not this white-knuckle drive up increasingly treacherous mountain roads.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," I mutter to myself as my wipers struggle against the thickening snow. "Why didn't you check the weather forecast, Tess?"

The answer is simple: because I hadn't thought beyond escaping. Three back-to-back surgeries, followed by the hospital board meeting where they not-so-subtly hinted that the department head position was mine if I "demonstrated appropriate commitment." Translation: work yourself to death and maybe, just maybe, we'll reward you.

So when my college roommate Jenna texted about her family's empty cabin in Angel's Peak, it seemed like the perfect getaway. No cell service. No emails. No ambitious residents seeking my approval. Just me, some novels I've been meaning to read for months, and blessed silence.

My car lurches sideways, sliding toward the guardrail, and my daydream shatters.

"No, no, no!" I wrestle with the wheel, heart pounding as I straighten out just in time. My surgeon's hands, normally steady under pressure, tremble against the leather.

That was too close. In the space of twenty minutes, this snowfall has turned into a proper blizzard, and visibility is rapidly approaching zero. I need to find shelter now.

I spot a small building with lights still on through the swirling white, just visible off the main road. I turn carefully, creeping forward until I make out a sign: "Angel's Peak Medical Clinic."

Perfect. If I have to be stranded, at least it's somewhere with heat and people who understand emergencies.

I park as close to the entrance as possible, grab my overnight bag from the passenger seat, and dash through knee-deep snow to the front door. By the time I reach it, I'm half-frozen and completely covered in fat, fluffy flakes.

The door is thankfully unlocked. I push inside, bringing a swirl of snowflakes with me, and find myself in a small, rustic waiting room. It's empty except for a potted plant and some outdated magazines.

"Hello?" I call out, my voice echoing slightly. "Is anyone here?"

"We're closed," comes a deep voice from somewhere beyond a half-open door. "Unless it's an emergency."

"It's not a medical emergency," I reply, stamping snow from my boots. "But I nearly drove off the mountain, and I don't think I can make it to my friend’s cabin in this storm."

The door swings open, and the man who steps through it stops me dead in my tracks.

He's tall—six-foot-two at least—with broad shoulders filling out a dark blue henley that matches eyes so intensely blue they're visible from across the room. Dark hair, just long enough to run my fingers through, frames a face that belongs on a magazine cover, not hidden away in a mountain clinic. A day's worth of stubble accentuates a strong jaw, and when he smiles at me, I feel it like a physical touch.

"Roads getting bad?" He crosses muscular arms over his chest and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.

I nod, suddenly aware of how I must look—hair wild from the wind, makeup probably smeared, snow melting on his clean floor.

"Getting bad?" I finally manage. "They're deadly. I almost went over the edge back there."

Something shifts in his expression—a professional assessment replacing the initial wariness.

"You're not hurt?" he asks, giving me a thorough once-over that feels decidedly clinical despite the way my skin heats under his gaze.

"No. Just shaken up. And very, very lost." I hold out my hand. "I'm Dr. Tess Carrington. I was heading to my friend’s cabin for the weekend."

His eyebrow raises slightly at my title, and when he takes my hand, the contact sends a jolt straight up my arm. His palm is warm and calloused, his grip confident without being crushing.

"Cole Blake, Emergency doc." He holds my hand a beat longer than necessary, and I resist the urge to pull away—not from discomfort, but because the contact is stirring something primitive I'd rather not acknowledge. "I'm covering the clinic while Dr. Reid is at a conference."

When he finally releases my hand, I tuck it safely into my pocket, trying to ignore the lingering warmth.

"Well, Dr. Blake?—"

"Cole," he interrupts, the corner of his mouth lifting in what might be the beginning of a smile.

"Cole," I correct myself, surprised by how easily his name rolls off my tongue. "Can you give me directions?—"

"You're not going anywhere tonight," he says with absolute certainty. "They'll have closed the mountain roads by now. A checkpoint about a mile back shuts down when conditions get dangerous."

He moves past me to the window, his arm brushing mine and leaving a trail of goosebumps I hope he doesn't notice. Pulling back the blinds, he stares out at the worsening storm.

"But I?—"

"I’m afraid you’re stuck with me for the night. Tell your friend you're safe but staying at the clinic." He glances at me. "You are safe. I'm not an axe murderer, just the doc unlucky enough to be on call during a blizzard."

I pull out my phone, already knowing what I'll find. "No service."

"Landline's over there." He points to a desk in the corner. "Dial 9 to get out."

"Guess, I’m stuck." I hang up with a sinking feeling.

Cole, who's been watching me with an unreadable expression, nods. "Looks like it."

"Is there anywhere in town I could stay? A hotel or...?"

"Everything's at the top of the mountain near the lodge. Down here it's just the clinic, a couple of shops, and local homes." He hesitates, then adds, "There's a break room with a decent couch in the back. It's where I crash when I'm on call. And there's a shower in the staff bathroom."

I bite my lip, considering my options—which are essentially nonexistent.

"I'd offer you my place," he continues, "but I live about fifteen minutes out, and my truck might not make it in this." He gestures at the worsening storm.

"The couch sounds perfect," I say quickly, relieved. "Thank you. I appreciate it."

"Don't thank me yet. It's not exactly five-star accommodation." He studies me for a moment, then asks, "What kind of doctor?"

"Trauma surgeon."

His eyes widen fractionally—either impressed or surprised, I can't tell.

"Denver General," I add, unsure why I need to establish my credentials.

"Big hospital," he comments, walking back toward the door he came through earlier. "Follow me. I'll show you where everything is."

I grab my bag and follow him down a short hallway, trying not to notice how his jeans fit perfectly over muscular thighs or how he moves with the easy confidence of a man completely at home in his own skin.

The urgent care clinic is small but surprisingly well-equipped. He points out the exam rooms, supply closet, and a tiny lab area.

"Not what you're used to, I'm sure," he says, and I detect a hint of defensiveness in his tone. "But we’re trying to expand our emergency services. We get a lot from the resort. Broken bones, concussions, stuff from people pushing their limits."

"This is impressive for a town this size."

Something like approval flickers across his face. "Break room's through here."

The room is small but comfortable, with a surprisingly plush-looking couch along one wall, a mini-fridge, a microwave, and a small table with two chairs.

"Bathroom's through that door," he says, pointing. "There are clean towels in the cabinet and probably some travel-sized toiletries left by various drug reps."

"This is perfect," I tell him, meaning it. "Really."

He nods, then hesitates. "You hungry? I was about to heat some soup when you arrived."

My stomach chooses that moment to growl audibly, and I laugh, embarrassed. "I guess that's a yes."

His smile transforms his face, softening the hard edges and lighting up his eyes in a way that makes my breath catch. "Chicken noodle or tomato?"

"Surprise me," I say, dropping my bag beside the couch.

While he heads to the kitchen area, I take the opportunity to send a quick text to my friend Jenna—it won't go through until I have service again, but at least it's ready. Then, I unpack a few essentials and head to the bathroom to wash up.

The face that looks back at me from the mirror is a disaster. My normally sleek dark hair is a wild tangle, my mascara is smudged under my eyes, and my cheeks are flushed from the cold. I splash water on my face, tame my hair as best I can, and apply some tinted lip balm in a futile attempt to look less like I just survived an avalanche.

When I emerge, Cole is setting two steaming mugs on the table along with some crackers.

"Chicken noodle," he says, pushing one toward me. "And hot chocolate. Storm essentials."

"Thank you." I settle into the chair across from him. The soup is homemade, as is the hot chocolate. It’s amazing and has a little kick to it I can’t place. "This is really kind of you."

He shrugs one broad shoulder. "Can't exactly throw you back into the blizzard."

We eat in surprisingly comfortable silence for a few minutes before he asks, "So, what brings a Denver trauma surgeon to our little mountain town in the middle of a snowstorm?"

"Escape," I admit, cupping my hands around the warm mug. "Just needed a few days away from the hospital politics and endless hours."

He nods, understanding in his eyes. "Bad week?"

"Bad month. I'm up for department head, and it's bringing out everyone's competitive side. Including mine," I add ruefully.

"Sounds intense."

"It is. And I want it—I've worked toward it for years—but sometimes I wonder if it's worth the constant pressure." I'm surprised by my candor. Something about his steady gaze makes it easy to talk.

"And what about you?" I ask, shifting the focus. "How does an emergency doc end up running a mountain clinic solo?" It hasn’t escaped my attention he’s alone. No nursing support. No front desk technician.

A shadow crosses his face. "Dr. Reid—he's the regular physician here—his wife had a stroke. Conference is just the cover story we're using to keep people from panicking. Small towns," he adds with a small smile. "Everyone worries when the only doctor leaves. As for my nurse, she’s snowed in up the mountain."

"That's awful. Is she going to be okay?"

"Too soon to tell, but she’s a trouper. As for Dr. Reid, he’s not coming back anytime soon, so the clinic board is scrambling to find coverage."

I understand the situation all too well. Rural medicine is always hanging by a thread, and the loss of even one provider can be catastrophic for a community.

"How long have you been here?" I ask, genuinely curious.

"Three years. Came from Chicago originally."

"That's quite a change."

His eyes meet mine over the rim of his mug. "Needed my own escape, I guess."

There's a story there, but it doesn't feel like the right time to press. Instead, I take another sip of the surprisingly rich hot chocolate.

"This is delicious," I say.

"My grandmother's recipe. Real chocolate, milk, vanilla, and a pinch of cayenne."

"Cayenne?" That explains the kick .

"Secret ingredient." He grins, and it transforms his face again, making him look younger and more approachable.

Our hands brush as I reach for a cracker at the same time he does, and that same electric jolt shoots up my arm. This time, he feels it, too, because his eyes darken, pupils dilating in a way that has nothing to do with the dim lighting.

For a moment, we're frozen in place, the air between us suddenly charged with something that has no business existing between two strangers. I've never experienced such an immediate, visceral reaction to someone—it's like my body recognizes his on some primal level, completely bypassing my rational mind.

He breaks the contact first, clearing his throat and standing up to take his empty mug to the sink.

"I should check the emergency line and make sure we haven't missed any calls." His voice is slightly rougher than before.

"Of course." I'm grateful for the moment to collect myself. What is wrong with me? I don't react like this to men I've just met. Especially not men who work in healthcare. I have a strict "no dating colleagues" rule for good reason.

But he's not your colleague, a treacherous voice in my head points out. Not really.

Cole returns a few minutes later, looking more composed. "All quiet. Guess everyone's staying put in this weather."

"Smart of them." I gather our empty soup mugs. "Unlike some people."

"City drivers," he teases, some of the earlier tension fading. "Always think they can beat the mountain."

"Hey, I grew up in Colorado," I protest, following him to the small sink. "Just not in the mountains."

"Denver girl, then?"

"Born and raised. You?"

"Chicago suburbs until college. Medical school at Northwestern. Six years in the military, and worked at Rush for five years before coming here."

"That's a prestigious program," I say, genuinely impressed. "And Rush is a great hospital." Did he say military? There’s another story for me, if I’m brave enough to ask.

He raises an eyebrow. "Surprised a guy would leave that for this?"

"That's not what I meant?—"

"It's fine," he cuts me off, but his voice is gentle. "Most people are. But I got tired of being a small cog in a big machine. Here, I make a difference every day."

I understand that feeling all too well. It's part of why I went into trauma—immediate impact, clear results. But lately, even that hasn't been enough to counter the bureaucracy and politics.

"Anyway," he continues, checking his watch, "it's getting late. I should let you get some rest." He moves to a closet and pulls out bedding—sheets, a pillow, and a handmade quilt. "These should keep you warm. The heating's good, but it gets cold at night."

"Thank you. Again." I take the stack from him, our fingers brushing once more. This time, I don't pull away quite so quickly, and neither does he.

"If you need anything, I'll be in the on-call room next door," he says, his voice lower than before. "Just knock."

I nod, suddenly very aware of how close we're standing, of the faint scent of pine and something distinctly male that seems to surround him.

"Goodnight, Dr. Carrington," he says, stepping back.

"Tess," I correct him. "Only my patients call me Dr. Carrington."

His slow smile makes my stomach flip. "Goodnight, Tess."

"Goodnight, and thank you."

He closes the door behind him. When I turn to make up the couch, I try to shake off the lingering awareness that seems to hum beneath my skin.

It's just the adrenaline from the drive. The relief of finding shelter. The unusual situation.

But as I change into the t-shirt and shorts I sleep in and slide under the quilt, I'm lying to myself. What I felt when our eyes met and when our hands touched wasn't circumstantial. It was chemistry, pure, powerful, and potent, the kind I've read about but never truly experienced.

And what terrifies me, what keeps me staring at the ceiling long after I should be asleep, is the certainty that if I knock on his door right now, he would open it.

And neither of us would get any sleep at all.