Page 8 of Wrecked on the Mountain

Her cheeks are flushed pink. Utterly adorable. The flush could be from exertion, or from being caught staring at my abs.

Either way, the color looks good on her.

"You know," she says, shifting the axe to rest against her shoulder, "some people find unsolicited advice incredibly annoying."

There's that fire again. It's good. I was wondering if she had any fight in her or if Chicago had beaten it all out.

"And some people," I reply, letting my gaze drift deliberately down her body and back up, "don't know how to use an axe."

Her jaw tightens. "I know how to use an axe."

"Do you, though?" I gesture toward her sad excuse for a woodpile. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're losing a fight with that log."

She glances at the evidence of her failure—scattered wood chips, an overturned planter, dirt everywhere—and I can see her trying to come up with a comeback.

"It's... harder than it looks," she admits finally.

"Most things are." I push off from the fence and walk closer to where she's standing until I'm directly across from her with only the wooden slats between us. "You city folk always think mountain life's gonna be like some Instagram post. All cozy cabin vibes and artisanal coffee."

Her chin lifts at that. "Are you judging me? You don't know anything about me."

"Don't I?"

I let my eyes track over her again. The designer athletic wear, the pristine hiking boots that have never been worn, the manicured nails that sparkle in the sun.

Everything about her screams temporary visitor, just passing through our world for the Instagram story.

"I bet I know more about you than you think. I bet you're renting that cabin to 'find yourself' or 'reconnect with nature' or some other bullshit that sounds good on social media."

She opens her mouth, probably to argue that I'm wrong, but I cut it off with a hard glare.

"Then you'll head back to whatever city life you came from, with a bunch of mountain selfies and stories about how 'transformative' it all was."

The color drains from her face, and I realize I might have hit a little too close to home.

But instead of backing down, she steps closer to the fence. It makes me want to bury my face in her neck and forget every lesson I've been taught me about city women who don't stay.

Don't be an idiot. Pretty packages always come with expiration dates.

"Wow," she says, voice sharp now. "You got all that from watching me fail at wood chopping? That's quite a talent for a man who spends his mornings putting on a show for the neighbors." She gestures at my bare chest with the axe. "Tell me, do you always greet newcomers half-naked, or am I just special?"

I can't help the grin that spreads across my face. Most people back down when I push. But not Dr. Brooke Shields. No, she pushes right back.

"Special? Sweetheart, I do this every morning. Though usually my audience is a lot less..." I pause, deliberately letting my eyes drift over her curves again, "...attentive."

She rolls her eyes, but I catch the way her breath hitches. "Right. Because you're just that irresistible?"

"Hey, you're the one who's been staring at my abs for the last twenty minutes. I'm just working out here, minding my own business."

"Minding your own—" She breaks off with an incredulous laugh. "You're literally leaning on my fence, critiquing my wood-chopping technique."

"Just sayin'. I've had years of practice."

"At being an asshole, or at making assumptions about strangers?"

I grin and chuckle a deep laugh.

"Both, probably." I extend my hand through a gap in the fence slats. "Look, the name is Strike."