Page 13

Three months.

That's how long Cole and I have been making this impossible relationship work. Twelve weekends of driving back and forth between Denver and Angel's Peak, stealing precious days between demanding schedules, and falling asleep with phones pressed to our ears when physical distance couldn't be bridged.

Three months of discovering what began in a snowstorm has grown into something strong enough to weather far greater challenges than mere geography.

I lean against the railing of my balcony, coffee warming my hands in the early morning air as I watch the city below slowly come to life. It's Sunday—my last morning with Cole before he drives back to Angel's Peak, and I dive into a week of administrative meetings and scheduled surgeries.

These moments—the quiet in-between times when we're not making love or making plans—have become precious to me. Time when we exist together, comfortable in shared silence, drawing strength from each other's presence.

The sliding door opens behind me, and I feel him before I see him—the solid warmth of his chest against my back, strong arms encircling my waist, lips pressing a kiss to the side of my neck.

"Morning," Cole murmurs, voice still rough with sleep. "Missed you in bed."

"Sorry." I lean back into his embrace, allowing myself the simple pleasure of being held. "I didn't want to wake you. You were driving late."

His shift ran long yesterday, delayed by a hiking accident that required his attention. He didn’t arrive at my apartment until after midnight. He was exhausted but still insistent on making the drive rather than waiting until morning.

"Worth it." He rests his chin on my shoulder to share my view of the city. "Even if it meant missing sunrise with you."

The casual affection in his voice, in his touch, no longer startles me as it once did. I've grown accustomed to this—to being cherished, to being prioritized by someone whose strength matches my own.

"Coffee?" I offer, lifting my mug.

"In a minute." His arms tighten slightly, keeping me close. "I'm enjoying this first."

We stand together in comfortable silence, watching Denver transition from night to day, the early sun glinting off glass and steel. It's a different beauty from the mountain sunrises Cole usually witnesses—man-made rather than natural, ordered rather than wild—but beautiful nonetheless.

"What's on your mind?" he finally asks, always attuned to the subtle shifts in my mood. "You're thinking hard for a Sunday morning."

I consider deflecting, offering some innocuous observation about the weather or upcoming work projects, but one of the many things I've learned in these months with Cole is the value of directness, of saying what needs to be said without hedging or hesitation.

"I got a call yesterday," I begin, turning in his arms to face him. "From Dr. Reid."

Cole's eyebrows lift in surprise. "Angel's Peak's Dr. Reid? My Dr. Reid?"

"His wife's recovery has worsened. They've decided to relocate permanently to Arizona, where their kids can help with her care." I take a breath, delivering the news that could change everything between us. "He's officially retiring. The position is open."

Understanding dawns immediately in those perceptive blue eyes. "And he called you about it? Not me?"

"He called me because the hospital board chair suggested it," I explain. "Your name came up as the obvious choice to replace him permanently, but you've declined twice already."

"I didn't tell you about that." A flash of something—guilt? regret?—crosses his features.

"No, you didn't." There's no accusation in my tone, merely observation.

"I didn't see the point. Taking the full physician position would mean more responsibility, more administrative work, less direct patient care." He sighs, running a hand through his sleep-tousled hair. "All the things I left Chicago to avoid. Not to mention…" His voice trails off, leaving the rest unsaid.

His reasoning makes sense and aligns perfectly with my understanding of his priorities and values. Yet something doesn’t quite add up.

“When did they first approach you?” I ask, unable to keep the edge of professional curiosity from creeping into my voice. I’m still a diagnostician at heart, always searching for the missing piece that completes the clinical picture.

“The first time was before I met you,” he says, confirming my suspicion. “The second was about a month ago.”

A month.

I take a slow sip of my now-cooling coffee, letting the timeline settle.

“Right around the time we started talking about making this relationship more…” I hesitate, not because I don’t know the word—but because I do. “ Defined .”

His expression doesn’t flicker. He knows exactly what I mean.

Not exclusivity. Not dating. But structure. Control. The kind of dominance that doesn’t stop when the clothes come off.

He doesn’t deny it. Just holds my gaze, steady and unflinching, waiting for me to catch up. And suddenly, I do.

“You didn’t take it because of me.”

The words leave me on a breath. “Because accepting would’ve tied you more firmly to Angel’s Peak. It would’ve made the distance harder to bridge. Harder for us.”

The implications spread like wildfire.

This wasn’t just a missed opportunity or a professional choice.

It was a sacrifice.

And he made it for me.

Cole’s expression doesn’t soften, but something shifts in his eyes—resolve surfacing beneath the steady calm.

“I made that decision after we talked about.” His voice is low, sure. Not dramatic. Just true. “I couldn’t ask for that—couldn’t lead you through that—if I was still living hours away, tied to a town you’d have no reason to stay in.” He leans forward slightly, eyes locked on mine.

"Cole…" I reach for him, and he takes my hand, lifting it to his mouth for a kiss. "You didn’t…you don’t have to do that."

“If we’re going to define this… then I need to be with you. In your life. Your space. Not as a visitor. But as the man who puts you on your knees at night and kisses your forehead before work in the morning.”

My heart stutters, caught between breath and surrender.

“I want us, and if that means walking away from Angel’s Peak, I’m willing to do that. I’m heere to fight for what matters.”

Me.

Us.

Every word lands like a vow.

"Cole." I set my mug on the railing, raising both hands to frame his face. "You can't make career decisions based on what might or might not happen with us."

"Why not?" he challenges, covering my hands with his own. "You're more important to me than a title or a paycheck. If there's even a chance that taking that position would create another obstacle between us, it's not worth it. Not to mention, I couldn’t even think of accepting it when I was planning on moving to Denver."

The declaration, delivered with his characteristic straightforwardness, both warms and troubles me.

"That's not how this works," I insist gently. "We each need to make professional choices that fulfill us and align with our values and goals. Otherwise, resentment builds. Trust me, I've seen it happen."

"Is that what this is about?" His expression shifts to concern. "Are you feeling resentful of the compromises you've been making for us?"

"No," I assure him quickly. "That's not it at all. But I need to know you're making decisions for the right reasons, not sacrificing opportunities you might want because of logistical challenges in our relationship."

He studies me for a long moment, his gaze so intent I feel he's seeing straight through to my deepest thoughts. "Why did Reid call you and not me?" he finally asks, returning to the original thread. "What exactly did he want?"

This is the part I've been circling around, the revelation that could change everything.

"He wanted to gauge my interest in the position." I watch Cole's expression carefully. "Or rather, the board chair did, through him."

For a moment, he doesn't seem to process my words. Then understanding dawns, his eyes widening slightly. "They're offering you Dr. Reid's job? They want you to come to Angel's Peak as a trauma surgeon?"

I nod, my pulse quickening as I voice the possibility aloud. "They want a trauma-qualified physician to expand the clinic's emergency capabilities. Apparently, tourism has increased enough to justify a higher level of care, especially for mountain accidents."

"But your position at Denver General," he begins, brow furrowing. "The department head role you worked so hard for..."

"Would need to be sacrificed," I finish for him. "Yes."

"Well, that’s not happening." He shakes his head, stepping back slightly though his hands remain on my arms. "If one of us is moving, it’s me. That's your dream job. Everything you've worked toward."

"It was my dream," I gently correct. "For the longest time, I thought it was. So much so, that it defined me. Blinded me. I couldn’t see what was important."

"What are you saying?" He searches my face, looking for signs of doubt or hesitation.

"I'm saying the past three months have changed me." The words come easier than I expected. "Changed what I want, what I value, and what I see in my future."

"Because of me?" His voice holds a note of caution, of concern that I might be making decisions based on emotion rather than reason—the very thing he just admitted to doing.

"Partly because of you—of us," I acknowledge. "But not entirely. The department head position hasn't been what I expected. More politics than medicine, more meetings than mentoring. I'm spending my days on budgets and staffing disputes instead of doing the work I love. My OR time is half what it was."

It's a truth I've been reluctant to admit, even to myself. The prestigious position I fought so hard to achieve has proved to be more of a burden than a blessing, taking me further from patients and procedures and the hands-on healing that drew me to medicine in the first place.

"You never said anything," Cole observes, no judgment in his tone. "Why didn’t you say something?"

"I didn't want to admit it. To you, or myself. More to myself." I smile ruefully. "Pride, I guess. After all that talk about career ambitions and professional goals, it seemed weak to confess that the summit I worked so hard to climb wasn't what I hoped for."

"It's not weak to reassess. It's wise." His expression softens, understanding replacing concern. "Goals should evolve as we do."

The simple acceptance in his words, the absence of any 'I told you so' about the potential emptiness of corporate advancement, reminds me yet again why I've fallen for this man. His strength lies not in domination but in support, his confidence not in being right but in being real.

"So," he says after a moment, carefully neutral. "Are you considering this offer?"

"I'm considering a lot of things," I admit. "Including what moving to Angel's Peak would mean for us. For our future."

Something flares in his eyes at the word 'future'—hope, maybe, or caution.

"What do you think it would mean?" He gives me space to articulate my thoughts rather than presuming.

I take a deep breath, organizing the swirl of possibilities coherently. "It would mean no more three-hour drives. No more snatched weekends and exhausted Monday mornings. No more falling asleep on the phone because we're too tired to talk but too attached to hang up."

"Those are the things it would eliminate," he notes. "What about what it would create?"

The question is perfect, forcing me to look beyond the logistical benefits to the deeper implications. "It would create... possibility," I say slowly. "Space for us to grow together without the strain of distance. Opportunity to build something real, something lasting. To move forward with…"

His hands tighten on my arms, hope more evident now in his expression. "Is that what you want? Something real and lasting with me?"

The vulnerability in his question pierces straight to my heart. This strong, confident man who commands every room he enters, who takes charge so naturally in every situation—he's asking for reassurance, for confirmation that I see the same future he does.

The question is simple. But the weight behind it is anything but.

I swallow, my gaze dropping to where his fingers grip my arms—firm, grounding, safe. A thousand thoughts clamor for airtime. The move. The shift in careers. The redefinition of everything I thought I wanted.

And something else.

Something darker. Deeper.

The part of me that aches from his crop. That pulses at the memory of his voice telling me to burn for him. That wants to kneel…

“I want…” The words stall in my throat, not because they’re untrue, but because they’re too raw. Too revealing.

His thumb brushes the inside of my elbow, coaxing, but I’m not ready.

“I want to keep exploring this,” I say instead, the safest truth I can give him. “Whatever this is becoming between us. I don’t have the right language for all of it yet, but?—”

My breath hitches. I force myself to look up.

“I know I don’t want to lose it.”

Something flickers across his face—recognition. Maybe even understanding.

He doesn’t press.

He just nods once, slow and sure, his voice a low promise.

“What’s that?”

“Everything. And we’re just getting started.” His smile starts slow but grows into something brilliant, transforming his already handsome face into something that takes my breath away. “Well then,” he says, hands sliding up to cup my face, voice thick with affection and heat, “what are we talking about?”

“I think I’m quitting my job.”

The words land between us, raw and real. His eyes search mine, and for a heartbeat, neither of us breathes.

Then—his thumb sweeps over my cheek, and his voice drops. “Tess, I want you to sit on this. Give it a really good think. Whatever you decide, I’m behind you, one hundred percent. Whether you quit and join me in Angel’s Peak, or I quit and join you down here, I want us to be together. You’re worth it.”

"The role is not just trauma surgeon, but Medical Director. I’m going to make this move—Angel’s Peak, us—I need to know we’re walking in with clear eyes. That you’re okay with me stepping into a role where I’m your boss. Would you be comfortable with me taking the lead role? With the dynamics that would create?”

“Have I ever given you the impression I have a problem with strong, capable women?” His laugh is low and intimate, pure heat wrapped in velvet. "Besides, I’m not interested in the bureaucratic bullshit. I turned that job down before we even met."

One hand slides into my hair, cradling the back of my head in that now-familiar gesture of gentle possession.

“Besides,” he adds, his gaze darkening with promise, “we’ve established pretty clearly that professional hierarchies have nothing to do with what happens behind closed doors—our bedroom or otherwise.”

The reminder of our private dynamic sends a pleasant shiver through me. In the months we've been together, we've perfected that balance—my leadership in professional settings, his in intimate ones, each of us secure enough to yield control in the appropriate context.

"There's still a lot to consider," I caution, not wanting to rush such a significant decision. "My parents will think I'm throwing away my career. The Denver medical community will see it as a step backward. And Angel's Peak is so different from anything I've known..."

"All true," he agrees, not dismissing my concerns. "And yet I've watched you these past months. You light up when you talk about the cases at my clinic—the direct impact, the personal connection with patients. You come alive in Angel's Peak in a way I don't see in Denver."

His observation strikes me with its accuracy. The weekends I've spent in his mountain town, occasionally helping out at the clinic when needs arose, have been among my most fulfilling recent professional experiences. The simplicity of treating patients and knowing the people behind the medical charts—it's rekindled something in me that I didn't realize had been fading.

"I still need time to think it through and weigh all the factors."

"Of course, and I wouldn’t let you make such a big decision without time to really think it through." He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch infinitely tender. "While I can’t make this decision for you, I can certainly order you to take the proper time to weigh all the possibilities."

The words settle over me slowly. Not pushy. Not presumptuous. But firm. Intentional.

A command wrapped in care.

And it lands differently than I expect—like a balm rather than a burden.

Because it’s not about the decision. It’s about the process. About making sure I don’t rush, don’t crumble under pressure. That I hold space for myself the way he already does.

A flicker of heat stirs low in my belly, not from lust but from something deeper. Recognition. Of what this is becoming. Of who he is when he takes control—not to limit me, but to protect my bandwidth, my energy, my worth.

I look up at him, heart thudding in a steady, dangerous rhythm.

“That sounded a lot like an order,” I murmur.

His smile is slow. Unapologetic. “It was.”

My body responds to the quiet authority threading his voice. He already knows how much I like it.

The weight of our words settles over me like a blanket, warming places I didn't know were cold. Whatever I decide about the job, Cole will be there—supporting, encouraging, and loving me through it.

"I love you," I say, the declaration simpler and more natural than I expected. "Whatever I decide about Angel's Peak, whatever challenges we face—that won't change."

For a moment, he seems stunned, those expressive blue eyes widening in surprise before softening with an emotion so deep it makes my chest ache.

"Tess." Just my name, but the way he says it—like a prayer, like a promise—tells me everything. His hands frame my face with exquisite gentleness. "I've been in love with you since that first snowstorm. Since you walked into my clinic and challenged every plan I had for my life."

The admission, delivered with his characteristic directness, fills me with a joy so pure it borders on pain.

"Why didn't you say something sooner?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

"Because you needed to find your own way to it," he says. "Because I knew when the words came, they'd be real. Worth waiting for."

And then he's kissing me, his mouth claiming mine with a tenderness that quickly deepens into passion. I yield to him willingly, arms winding around his neck as his hands slide down to pull me firmly against him. The taste of him—now familiar but no less intoxicating—sends heat spiraling through me, driving away the morning chill.

When we finally part, both slightly breathless, I rest my forehead against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my cheek. His arms remain around me, solid and secure, a physical echo of the emotional certainty building between us.

"Whatever you decide about the job," he murmurs against my hair, "we'll make it work. If you stay in Denver, I'll move. If you come to Angel's Peak, I'll spend every day showing you why it should be our home."

Home.

The word resonates through me, carrying echoes of possibility I hadn't allowed myself to consider until now. Not a place to live or work, but somewhere to belong, to build a life, to create a future with the person who has so unexpectedly become essential to my happiness.

"I think," I say slowly, the clarity of certainty beginning to form, "that I need to visit Angel's Peak again. Soon. To talk with the board, to see the clinic with fresh eyes. To imagine what a life there might look like."

His smile is warm against my temple. "I can arrange that. Though I should warn you—once you start imagining your life in Angel's Peak with me, it going to be impossible to imagine being anywhere else."

"Is that what happened to you?" I ask, curious about his journey to the place that's become so central to his identity. "When did you know it was home, not just an escape?"

He considers this, his expression thoughtful. "There wasn't one moment. More a series of realizations. The first time a patient brought me homemade soup when I caught the flu. The day I finished building my cabin deck and stood looking at the mountain view, feeling like I'd finally found where I belonged. The morning I realized I no longer thought of Chicago as 'back home' but just as 'Chicago.'"

His description paints a picture of gradual belonging, of roots growing slowly but deeply into unfamiliar soil until they become anchored enough to withstand any storm. It's a different path than my own—all careful planning and deliberate achievement—but no less valid and no less fulfilling.

"And now?" I prompt, wanting to hear the end of the story, how he views his mountain home now that our lives have become so entwined.

His eyes find mine, open and honest as always. "Now I look at Angel's Peak and see not just my past and present, but our future, if you want it."

Then, with a mischievous glint and a grin that’s pure trouble, he adds, “And yeah… I might also picture how incredible you’ll look tied to our bed, begging me to let you come.”

I laugh, breathless and already flushed. Because, of course, he can’t help himself.

There are still logistics to consider, details to arrange, and practical matters to resolve. But in this moment, with the morning sun warming my skin and Cole's love warming my heart, the decision feels less daunting than it did minutes ago.

But I’m not letting him have the last word.

“Mmhmm.” I stretch languidly, a wicked smile tugging at my lips. “If you’re thinking about tying me up… There’s no time like the present.”

“Sweetheart, challenge accepted.” He growls low in his throat, the sound reverberating straight through me.

As his lips find mine again, as his arms create a haven of strength and tenderness around me, I allow myself to fully embrace the truth that's been growing these past months: sometimes the detours in life—the unexpected snowstorms, the chance encounters, the paths we never planned to take—lead us exactly where we need to be.

Love the heat, danger, and heart in Angel’s Peak?

Get ready to hike higher, fall harder, and surrender deeper…

Up next: Rescued by the Mountain Guide

When ambitious travel writer Cloe Matthews heads into the Rockies for a career-making article, she doesn’t expect to be stranded—or saved by Jackson Hart, the grumpy, guarded mountain man with ice in his veins and hands that know exactly how to melt her.

But when a blizzard traps them together in his one-room mountain shelter, sparks fly fast and hot—and something wild and undeniable ignites between them.

He’s used to saving lives. Not surrendering his heart.