Page 60 of Wrecked on the Mountain

The relief that floods through me is so intense it makes my knees weak, followed immediately by embarrassment that makes my face burn.

What the hell is happening to me? My girlfriend? Did I seriously just say that?Out loud?

"Where's Dr. Shields?" I ask, trying to sound casual instead of like a jealous maniac who almost just accused his employee of getting a blowjob at work.

"She went home," Chase says, still picking up gummy bears. "Said she wasn't feeling well. Headache or something. I told her I could handle the night shift solo. It's been dead quiet anyway."

She went home sick.

Not because she's planning to leave Stone River. Not because she's having second thoughts about us. Not because she's realized that a small-town mountain man isn't worth staying for.

She's just got a headache.

"She seemed fine when she got here," Chase continues, completely oblivious to my internal crisis. "But around nine, she got all quiet and distracted. Said she needed to go lie down."

"Is she okay?" I ask, because despite my paranoid spiral, I'm genuinely concerned.

If she isn't feeling well, I should make sure she's okay.

"Yeah, I think so." Chase gives me a knowing look. "You should probably check on her," Chase suggests casually, popping another gummy bear in his gob. "Make sure she's got everything she needs."

I should leave. But maybe I should also let her have the space she apparently needs. I should act like a professional instead of a lovesick teenager who can't go four hours without seeing his girlfriend.

Girlfriend.

The word stops me cold because I realize that's exactly what Brooke has become, isn't it? Not just the hot doctor I'm sleeping with. Not just a temporary distraction.

She's my girlfriend.

Mygirlfriend.

Chapter Thirteen

Brooke

I’m trying to read about advanced medical protocols while my brain feels like it’s been pureed in a NutriBullet.

The words on the page are blurry hieroglyphics, and I’ve reread the same paragraph on hemorrhage control so many times I might actually qualify as an honorary blood clot.

My head pounds behind my eyes in a slow, merciless rhythm, and the soft jazz Piper recommended is only making it worse. Each saxophone trill feels like a personal attack on my brainstem my head is killing me so bad.

This is ridiculous.

I slam the textbook shut and collapse back against a mountain of throw pillows I’ve constructed on the couch like some kind of emotional fortress. The oversized sweatshirt I pulled on after my ice-cold shower is slipping off one shoulder, and my fluffy pink robe is cinched around me like it’s trying to hold me together.

The peppermint diffuser in the corner puffs out another cloud of minty-sweet steam, and it should be helping, but all I can think about is how Jamie smellsexactlylike this. Like peppermint and trees and pure sin wrapped in thermal cotton.

Don’t think about Jamie.

Too late. He’s carved into my brain like initials in a tree trunk.

The last three days have been an absolute dream. Not just the sex, but everything in between. The way he brought me coffee this morning with that gorgeously sleepy smile. The way he kissed my forehead before leaving for the station like we’d been doing this for years. The fact that he changed his name in my phone toMountain Daddyand pretended like it wasn’t even a thing.

I’m falling for him.

Hard. Fast. Like a mountain avalanche of feelings I was not prepared to handle.

And it scares the ever-loving hell out of me.