Page 37 of Wrecked on the Mountain

His lips are soft but firm, moving against mine with a confidence that makes my knees weak.

I drop the hot chocolate mug somewhere behind me, spilling the contents to the floor as I reach up to grip his jacket, pulling him closer. He makes a low sound in his throat and deepens thekiss, one hand tangling in my still-damp hair while the other presses against my back, bringing my body closer to his.

When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard.

"Happy birthday, sweetheart," he murmurs against my forehead.

And for the first time in years, it actually feels like one.

Chapter Eight

Jamie

That kiss.Thatkiss!

Lying here in my king-size bed, staring at the ceiling while moonlight filters through the windows, all I can think about is the way Brooke melted against me in that warming tent. The soft sound she made when I deepened the kiss. How her hands fisted in my jacket like she was drowning and I was her lifeline.

Fuck.

I roll over and punch my pillow, trying to find a position that doesn't make me think about her lips, her taste, the way she looked at me when we broke apart.

Like I was something worth staying for.

That's the problem.Thatlook.

Because I've seen it before, and I know how this story ends.

Rebecca looked at me like that too, in the beginning. Like Stone River Mountain was exactly where she wanted to be, like I was exactly who she wanted to be with.

Right up until the moment she decided we weren't enough anymore.

But Brooke... Christ, Brooke was different today. The way she handled the polar plunge, laughing and waving to the crowd afterward like she'd been born to this community. How she let Betty fuss over her, accepted congratulations from people she barely knows, looked genuinely happy to be part of something bigger than herself.

After the warming tent, we'd rejoined the festival.

I watched her demolish a plate of Murphy's Smokehouse bourbon-glazed ribs while sitting cross-legged on a blanket beside the fire pit, sauce on her chin and absolutely zero concern for looking refined.

When Etta and Mabel dragged her over to judge their "Best Winter Romance Scarf" contest, she took it seriously, examining each entry like she was awarding a Nobel Prize.

And when the string quartet started playing and couples began dancing on the makeshift floor Betty had convinced the town council to install, Brooke didn't look around awkwardly or make excuses to leave.

She just sat there, mulled wine in hand, watching with the kind of soft smile that made my chest tight.

Like she belonged.

Like she wanted to belong.

I drag my hands through my hair and force myself to focus on facts instead of fantasies.

Fact: She's temporary. Three months, then back to Chicago.

Fact: She's brilliant, accomplished, the kind of woman who could work anywhere in the world.

Fact: Stone River Mountain is a small town in the middle of nowhere, and I'm just a mountain rescue coordinator with commitment issues and a fucked-up track record with city women.

But then I remember the way she kissed me back, like she'd been waiting for it as long as I had. The way she whispered "yes" when I asked her to meet me at sunrise tomorrow, no hesitation, no conditions.

Maybe this time is different.