Page 13 of Wrecked on the Mountain

A complete spread of fresh biscuits with honey butter, thick-cut bacon that's perfectly crispy, eggs that look farm-fresh. There are even hash browns that are golden brown perfection.

"Who's the cook?" I whisper to Martha, because this spread belongs in a five-star resort, not a rescue station.

"They all take turns," she says, clearly enjoying my shock. "Competition gets pretty fierce. Jamie insists on proper nutrition for the team so all the men here areverytalented when it comes to the kitchen."

One of the men—broad shoulders, dark beard, forearms that could probably bench press a truck—glances up and catches me staring. He grins and raises his coffee mug in a little salute.

I quickly duck back behind the reception desk, face burning.

"Don't mind them," Martha laughs. "They're harmless. Mostly."

That's when the front door opens behind me with a rush of cold mountain air and heavy footsteps that make my pulse immediately spike.

"Sorry I'm late, Martha," a deep, familiar voice says, and every cell in my body recognizes that gravelly tone. "Had to chase Tommy's ass down Main Street after he decided the hardware store needed some creative signage."

Oh no.

No no no no no.

I know that voice.

That's the voice that made me forget how to breathe yesterday morning while I stood there gripping an axe like my life depended on it.

I turn around slowly, already knowing what I'm going to see but desperately hoping I'm wrong.

I'm not wrong.

Strikeis standing in the doorway, and sweet merciful fuck, he looks even better than yesterday.

Dark cargo pants that hug powerful thighs. A fitted forest-green shirt that clings to every muscle I spent hours fantasizing about last night. His thick brown hair is perfectly tousled, like he just ran his fingers through it.

And there are those eyes again.

Those devastating blue eyes that are currently dancing with amusement.

"Dr. Brooke Shields," he says, and there's so much satisfied smugness in his voice that I want to either slap him or climb him like a tree. "Welcome to Mountain Rescue."

Yep. There it is.

My eyes drop to see he's also wearing a badge that clearly identifies him as Mountain Rescue Coordinator.

Oh. Fuck. My. Life.

My mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for air. I can feel heat creeping up my neck, across my cheeks, probably turning my entire face the color of a ripe tomato.

He's my boss.

My shirtless, wood-chopping, arrogant neighbor who caught me eye-fucking him through a fence is my boss.

My boss!

The man I've been having extremely inappropriate thoughts about is the person I'll be reporting to for the next three months.

"You..." I start, then stop, because apparently my brain has decided to take an unscheduled vacation.

"Me," he confirms, stepping closer with that predatory smile that makes heat pool between my thighs. "Jamie Striker, Mountain Rescue Coordinator. Around here, they just call meStrike."

He extends his hand like we're meeting for the first time, even though we both know exactly how ridiculous this is.