Page 41 of Wrecked on the Mountain

I nearly drop the whisk I'm holding.

Because there's something wistful in her voice that makes me want to pull her against my chest and promise her she'll always have a place at that table. Instead, I focus on whisking the chocolate mixture, trying to talk myself out of doing something monumentally stupid.

Like telling her I'm already half in love with her.

Like asking her to stay past her three-month contract despite the fact she's only one week into it.

Like carrying her upstairs to my bed and showing her exactly how much I want her.

But I need to keep this simple. Give her some hot chocolate. A polite conversation. Then she goes home.

I spend the next ten minutes perfecting the hot drinks and by the time I turn around with two steaming mugs, ready to sit on the opposite end of the couch and maintain a safe distance, I find Brooke curled up in the corner of my leather sofa.

Fast asleep.

She's tucked her feet under her, one hand still clutching the throw pillow, her silky hair falling across her face in soft waves. In sleep, she looks younger, peaceful in a way I haven't seen since she arrived in Stone River.

I set the mugs down on the coffee table and grab the wool blanket from the back of the couch, draping it carefully over her shoulders.

She shifts slightly, murmuring something I can't quite catch, but doesn't wake.

Standing there in my living room, watching this brilliant, beautiful woman sleep on my couch after the day we've shared, I feel something settle in my chest that I haven't felt in seven years.

Hope.

Tomorrow morning, if she's still on my sofa, I'll wake her and we'll go to the sunrise spot. Together. We'll watch the sun come up over the mountains, and maybe I'll finally tell her what she's starting to mean to me.

But tonight, she's here. Safe and warm in my home, surrounded by my things, looking like she belongs exactly where she is.

And you know what?

At least she's not alone on her birthday this year.

Chapter Nine

Brooke

I wake up to the sound of someone singing "Anti-Hero" by Taylor Swift.

Badly.

And enthusiastically.

For a moment, I'm completely disoriented. This isn't my cabin. The couch I'm curled up on is butter-soft leather, there's a wool blanket draped over me that smells like the forest, and whoever's murdering Taylor Swift in the kitchen sounds suspiciously like...

Jamie.

Oh my God.

Jamie Striker, gruff mountain rescue coordinator and certified lumberjack fantasy, is singing Taylor Swift while making breakfast.

I sit up slowly, trying not to make noise, and take in my surroundings. Jamie's living room in daylight is even more gorgeous than it was last night. Huge windows frame a viewof snow-covered mountains that belongs on a postcard, and everything about this space screams expensive comfort. It's the kind of place where you could spend a weekend wrapped in cashmere throws and never want to leave.

On the coffee table in front of me sits a full mug of what must be the hot chocolate Jamie made last night, stone cold now. Beside it, an empty mug with traces of chocolate at the bottom.

He stayed up. Probably watching me sleep like some kind of protective mountain guardian.

"I'll stare directly at the sun but never in the mirror," comes Jamie's voice from the kitchen, and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud.