Page 47 of Wrecked on the Mountain

"Conscious and responsive. Appears to be a middle-aged male, complaining of chest pain but no visible trauma."

Chest pain. Could be anything from the seat belt to cardiac issues. Good thing I've got the best trauma surgeon in three states wrapped around me like a beautiful, distracting backpack.

I ease off the throttle as we near the accident site, the snowmobile's engine purring down from a roar to a gentle rumble beneath us.

Brooke's arms, which have been acting as my own personal heated safety harness, loosen just slightly around my waist. The immediate absence of her warmth against my back hits me like stepping out of a hot shower into a cold bathroom

"There," she says, pointing toward the treeline where I can just make out the back end of a silver SUV that's somehow managed to wedge itself between two massive pines about thirty feet down the slope.

I park the snowmobile and we both climb off, grabbing our gear from the back. The moment Brooke starts moving, her entire demeanor shifts into something I've never seen before.

Dr. Brooke Shields, trauma surgeon, has entered the building.

She's checking her medical kit with the kind of systematic efficiency that speaks to years of life-or-death training. Every movement is swift, confident, like she's done this a thousand times before.

And goddamn if it isn’t the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

Her face goes from laughing-in-the-snow playful to razor-sharp and focused in half a second flat. Her jaw is tight, eyes scanning the terrain as she works the medic bag open, mouth setin a soft but determined line that makes it hard to look anywhere else.

And when she stands up, there's the walk.Jesus.

It's like a damn power-walk.

Like she’s about to dominate a runway and save a life all in the same breath. Long strides. Hips swaying like sin under those snow pants and that high ponytail bouncing like it’s got its own mission briefing.

She's like a hotter version of Battlefield Barbie. With a scalpel in one hand and my sanity in the other.

"How's your climbing?" I ask, gesturing toward the steep, snow-covered slope we'll need to navigate to reach the vehicle.

"Better than my wood-chopping," she replies with a grin.

I’m about to explain the best approach down the slope when Brooke bends over to grab something else from her medical bag.

And I nearly drop mine.

Her jacket hikes up just enough to reveal a stretch of bare lower back, soft and golden skin exposed against the cold air. And right there, peeking over the waistband of her snow pants, is a teasing triangle of black lace.

She's wearing a g-string. Out here. In the snow. On a medical rescue.

The curve of her ass fills out those pants beautifully, tight enough to make me bite the inside of my cheek. Perfect, round, devastating. The kind of ass that makes a man believe in fate.

Or karma.

Or maybe just very dirty miracles.

Fuck.I forget what day it is. I forget my own name. I forget what I'm even doing here.

"You good there, Strike?" she asks, glancing over her shoulder with one brow raised.

I clear my throat, trying not to look like I’m on the verge of combusting. "Yeah. Just... calculating the safest route down."

Sure. That’s what I was doing.

Not obsessing over the exact angle I’d like to grab her hips and bend her over.

I manage to snap to it and get the blood circulating back in my head.

Getting down to the SUV takes about ten minutes of careful maneuvering through snow and around trees. When we reach the driver's side, I can see our patient. He's a man in his fifties, conscious but pale, gripping the steering wheel like it's the only thing keeping him upright.