Page 40 of Wrecked on the Mountain

"Thank you," she says as I pull into her driveway. "For letting me come. That was... exactly what I needed."

"No one should spend their birthday alone on their porch," I say, hand shaking as I continue to contemplate reaching across and grabbing her thigh. "You ever need some company, you know where to find me. Okay?"

She smiles and starts to get out of the truck, and I make a decision that's either brilliant or completely stupid.

"Brooke, wait."

She stills on the edge of the seat, looking over her shoulder at me. "What is it?"

Suddenly the air in the cab of my truck has disappeared. My throat has gone dry and the words are lodged in my throat.

"You… uh… you want some hot chocolate?" I ask. "My mom's recipe. The one you like. The real stuff, not the powder."

She pauses with her hand on the door handle, and I can see the internal debate playing out on her face.

We both know what I'm really asking.

We both know that going into my cabin at midnight, after the kiss we shared, after the way we've been circling each other for days, is dangerous territory.

"I should probably..." she starts, then stops.

She looks at me for a long moment, those gorgeous eyes searching my face for something I hope I'm giving her.

"Okay," she says finally. "But only because I love your mom's hot chocolate."

I practically lunge out of my truck, nearly tripping over my own boots to get her inside before she changes her mind.

By the time I reach my door, my heart is hammering against my ribs like I'm back in basic training, and I have to force myself to take a steadying breath.

Somehow, the prospect of having Brooke in my space, in my home, has me more nervous than dangling from a helicopter in high winds.

Luckily, my cabin at night is warmer, cozier than during the day. The fireplace is still glowing with embers from the log I threw on before I went to bed, and I can see Brooke taking in the details as I turn on a few lamps in the living room.

"This is beautiful," she says, settling onto my couch like she belongs there. "Did you build this yourself?"

She looks around the hand-hewn beams, the leather furniture, what would be the view of the valley through the wall of windows if it wasn't so dark outside.

"Most of it." I move toward the kitchen, pulling out the ingredients for Mom's famous hot chocolate recipe. Real chocolate, heavy cream, a touch of cinnamon and vanilla that makes it taste like comfort in a mug. "Took me three years, working on it between rescue calls and deployments. Beau helped me with some of it, when he was feeling up to it."

I can hear her moving around the living room, probably looking at the old military photographs on the mantle, the books scattered across the coffee table. Usually I'd be worried about having to share too much of my past, but with Brooke, I'm not that bothered that she's seeing this side of me.

She's making herself at home in a way that should terrify me… but somehow doesn't.

"Is this all of your family?" she calls out.

"Yeah." I glance over to see her studying a group photo from last Christmas—all of us crowded around Mom's dining table, arguing over who gets the last piece of pie. "They're loud and opinionated and completely impossible."

"They look perfect," she says softly.

I think about Mom's not-so-subtle suggestion that I invite Brooke to Sunday dinner the other day. How she's probablyalready planning the menu and wondering if Brooke has any food allergies. Rebecca always found excuses to avoid those dinners, saying they were too loud, too chaotic, too much small-town family drama for her taste.

But after seeing her at the festival today, I think Brooke would love it.

"Mom wants me to invite you to Sunday dinner," I say before I can talk myself out of it. "Fair warning, it's complete chaos. Three sisters, their opinions about everything, and Mom asking personal questions she has no business asking."

I'm already preparing for her polite decline, the careful explanation about not wanting to intrude on family time.

"That sounds nice," Brooke says simply, still looking at the photo.