Page 21 of Wrecked on the Mountain

"We should head back," I say finally, because standing here thinking about touching her is not helping my self-control.

"Already?" She looks genuinely disappointed. "But this is beautiful. And I was just starting to extract embarrassing stories about your childhood."

"No embarrassing stories."

"Come on, there have to be some. Growing up in a small town, three sisters, parents who clearly adore you..." She starts walking backward down the trail, facing me with that mischievous smile. "I bet you were the kind of kid who rescued baby birds and cried during Disney movies."

"I did not cry during Disney movies."

"Lilo and Stitch?"

I don't answer, which apparently is answer enough.

"I knew it!" she crows, spinning around to walk normally but still grinning over her shoulder at me. "You're such a softie."

"I am not a softie."

"You carry hot chocolate in your thermos and have a vending machine stocked with artisanal beef jerky and eight-dollar fruit leather."

"Those snacks improve team morale. And they're locally sourced. I'm all about supporting the community. Just ask anyone."

"Your team is lucky to have you," she says, and the sudden sincerity catches me off guard. "Seriously. I've worked with a lot of different organizations, and I've never seen anyone put this much thought into taking care of their people."

"Brooke," I start, not sure what I'm going to say, but suddenly she stumbles and slips before my eyes.

I move without thinking, lunging forward to catch her before she can fall. My arms go around her waist, pulling her against my chest, and suddenly we're pressed together from knee to shoulder.

She's warm and soft and smells like that citrusy perfume. Her hands are gripping my jacket, and she's looking up at me with eyes that are wide and startled and entirely too close to my mouth.

"You okay?" I ask.

"Yeah," she whispers, not taking a step back. "Thanks for catching me."

I reach up and brush a strand of hair away from her face, my thumb lingering against the soft skin of her cheek. Then I feel her hands through my jacket, and they're like ice cubes pressed against my chest.

"Christ," I mutter. "How cold are your hands?"

"Pretty cold," she admits, and I notice that her lips are starting to look blue around the edges.

Idiot. She's been out here for an hour without gloves, and you're standing around having a moment instead of getting her warmed up.

I step back, immediately missing her warmth but focused now on practical concerns.

"We need to get you back to the truck," I say, shrugging off my pack to pull out emergency hand warmers. "Here."

I tear open two packets and place them in her palms, then cover her hands with mine to help trap the heat.

"Better?"

"Much," she says, looking down at our joined hands with an expression I can't quite read. "Thank you."

"Next time, bring gloves," I say gruffly. "And a proper jacket. And your own damn thermos. All of which you can find in the gear room that we went to before we left."

"Yes, sir," she says with a little smile that makes it clear she's not taking my grumpiness seriously.

Sir.I'll give her fuckingsir.

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