Page 11 of Wrecked on the Mountain

I leave her standing there, processing that information.

I can practically see the wheels turning in her head, probably already strategizing how to impress her new boss. If only sheknew that her new boss has already seen her lose a fight with an axe and a decorative planter.

Tomorrow is going to be so fucking entertaining.

Oh yes… when Dr. Brooke Shields walks into Mountain Rescue headquarters expecting to meet her new boss, she's going to get the shock of her professional life.

And I'm going to enjoy every single second of it.

Because I'm going to have my fun.

Three months of temporary fun. Three months of working alongside a woman who looks at me like she wants to climb me like a tree, but who's already planning her exit strategy.

The smart thing would be to keep my distance.

Don't make the same mistake I made with Rebecca.

Professional courtesy only.

As I strip off my clothes and step under the hot water, all I can think about is the way Brooke looked when I called her out—wounded but defiant, like I'd hit something true and painful.

Just like I look when people assume I'm just some small-town operator who doesn't understand the bigger world.

Maybe we're more alike than either of us wants to admit. And maybe that's exactly why I need to keep my distance.

Three months. That's it. I can handle anything for three months.

Even a brilliant, beautiful woman who makes me want to risk everything I've spent seven years protecting.

Even if she'll leave the moment something better comes along.

Just like they always do.

Chapter Three

Brooke

I'm going to die of humiliation.

No, scratch that. First I'm going to die of sexual frustration,thenhumiliation, because apparently my body has decided that standing outside the Mountain Rescue headquarters is the perfect time to replay yesterday's shirtless wood-chopping show in high definition.

Those abs. Sweet Jesus, those abs.

I shake my head and check my phone: 7:58 AM. Two minutes early, which in hospital time means I'm practically late.

But this isn't a trauma bay where seconds mean life or death. This is... whatever mountain rescue orientation looks like.

So it's perfect timing in my new life.

Now if I can just walk through these doors without spontaneously combusting from the memory of my neighbor's—

Don't think about his chest, Brooke. Don't think about how the sweat traced down his—

"Professional," I mutter, adjusting my blazer. "You are a professional trauma surgeon, not a horny teenager."

The building itself is gorgeous, all rustic timber and native stone with windows that perfectly reflect the mountain vista behind me. It screams "wilderness operation" meets "luxury lodge," which honestly?

Not what I expected from a small-town rescue service.