Page 10 of Wrecked on the Mountain (Stone River Mountain #2)

Chapter Six

Jamie

I stand at the edge of Bear Paw Café's parking lot, watching Stone River Mountain transform into something that belongs in a luxury winter resort magazine.

The morning air is crisp enough to bite, but the sun's hitting the fresh snow, making everything sparkle like someone scattered diamonds across the entire festival setup.

This is exactly why I love this fucking town.

This is what home looks like.

Strings of warm Edison bulbs crisscross overhead between the pine trees, casting a golden glow that'll be perfect once the sun sets over the Annual Winter Festival.

Food trucks are lined up along Main Street—not your typical greasy carnival fare, but actual gourmet operations. There's the wood-fired pizza truck from Cascade Valley, the artisanal donut cart that's always popular, and I can already smell the bourbon-glazed bacon from Murphy's Smokehouse.

The warming stations I insisted on are scattered throughout the area like luxurious little islands of heaven. Each one features a roaring fire pit where flames dance in the breeze, surrounded by cozy seating that looks like it was stolen directly from some billionaire's retreat.

It's exactly the kind of detail that transforms a small-town festival into the winter wonderland fantasy that people drive hours to experience.

And yeah, I'm absolutely taking credit for this particular stroke of genius.

Because if there's one thing Stone River Mountain is good at, it's doing this festival, and doing it right.

Three months of planning, coordinating with vendors, arguing with the town council about permits, and calling in favors from every contact I've made in my thirty-five years of life. All so Stone River can throw a winter festival that'll make people remember why small towns matter.

All so my community can shine the way it deserves to.

"Standing around admiring your work again?"

Betty's voice cuts through my internal pride session. She appears beside me with a steaming cup that smells like heaven—her signature peppermint hot chocolate.

"Just making sure everything's perfect," I say, accepting the cup with a grin. "And if I happen to be congratulating myself a little, well... someone has to."

"Mmhmm." Betty's knowing look could strip paint. "And I suppose all these cozy little seating areas around the fire pits have nothing to do with creating romantic moments for unsuspecting singles?"

I clutch my chest in mock offense. "Betty Simmons, are you suggesting I'd use my position as festival coordinator to play matchmaker? That's your job."

"Oh honey," she pats my arm, her eyes twinkling with mischief, "I taught you everything you know about strategic seating arrangements."

Betty Simmons has been the unofficial mayor of Stone River's emotional landscape for as long as I can remember.

She delivered my baby sister, fed me cookies when Rebecca left, and somehow always knows exactly when someone needs a warm drink and a listening ear.

Word on the street is Betty's latest success story involves Beau Callahan. The perpetually scowling cabin builder who used to avoid human contact like it was contagious.

Now he's walking around my Mountain Rescue base with an actual smile.

"The festival looks beautiful, sweetheart," Betty says, her eyes twinkling with that maternal pride that our town loves. "Your mama's going to cry when she sees what you've put together."

I grunt, but I'm pleased.

Mom cried when I told her about the live string quartet I hired from Missoula. She'll lose it completely when she sees the ice sculpture garden and the gourmet hot chocolate bar.

"I see Etta and Mabel are beside themselves with excitement," Betty continues, gesturing toward the craft vendor area where the town's resident gossip queens are setting up their knitted goods booth. "They've been planning their 'Winter Romance Collection' for months."

I squint and shake my head. "A Winter Romance Collection? Jesus Christ."

I can see them now, arranging hand-knitted scarves and beanies of all colors. Knowing those two, they've probably coordinated the entire display to maximize chance romantic encounters.

"Should I be worried?" I ask.

"Always," Betty laughs, patting my arm. "But that's half the fun."

I make my way toward their booth, and sure enough, Etta waves me over with the enthusiasm of a woman half her age.

"Jamie, dear!" she calls, adjusting her glasses. "Come see what we've created!"

Their setup is... impressive, actually. Display racks showing off cable-knit scarves in every color imaginable, chunky beanies with pompoms, and an entire section of matching couples' sets.

"Very nice, ladies," I say diplomatically.

"Oh, this is just the beginning," Mabel adds with a sweet smile that doesn't fool me for a second. "We've got special 'festival romance packages'—buy a scarf, get a matching beanie for that special someone."

"And," Etta leans in conspiratorially, "we may have made a few custom pieces for certain people who might need a little... encouragement."

I fold my arms over my chest. "What kind of encouragement?"

"The kind that involves sharing body heat," Mabel says innocently, holding up what appears to be a scarf designed for two people. "Isn't it clever?"

Before I can respond to that terrifying development, Frank Barrett's booming voice cuts across the festival grounds.

"Striker! These food vendors want to know where to dump their grease!"

"Behind Timber Tavern," I call back. "Charlie set up a disposal station."

Frank nods and stomps off, probably to terrorize some unsuspecting food truck operator with his grumbles and secret heart of gold.

That's the thing about this town. Everyone shows up when it matters.

Like today, for this amazing festival.

Rebecca never understood that. She saw Frank as some cranky old man who complained about everything. She never bothered to learn that he rebuilt Vivienne, the town librarian's, front porch for free after a storm one year, or that he keeps emergency supplies in his truck for anyone who needs them.

She saw the surface. The small-town quirks and limitations of a tight-knit community.

She never saw the heart.

I continue my rounds and I'm checking the sound system when Charlie Finnegan from Timber Tavern approaches.

"Fuel for the festival coordinator," he says, handing me a small tray of food with a grin. "Murphy's Smokehouse outdid themselves. That's bourbon-glazed pork with apple-fennel slaw and their signature chipotle aioli."

I take a bite and have to suppress a groan of pleasure.

The pork is tender enough to cut with a fork, the slaw adds the perfect acidic crunch, and the aioli has just enough heat to warm you from the inside.

"Fuck, that's good," I say around another bite.

"Right? I'm trying to convince Murphy to do a permanent popup at the tavern," Charlie continues, leaning against the nearby warming station. "Figure we could do elevated pub food, maybe some craft beer pairings—"

Over Charlie's shoulder I see the Mountain Rescue truck pulling into the parking area and my entire body goes on alert, like someone just flipped a switch. Because behind the wheel is Chase Morrison, and in the passenger seat...

Brooke.

Charlie's still talking about menu possibilities, but his words fade into background noise as I watch her step out of the truck.

Jesus fucking Christ.

She's wearing dark jeans that hug her perfect ass, paired with a fitted burgundy sweater that makes her auburn hair look like fire. Her cheeks are pink from the cold, and when she turns to say something to Chase, I catch the flash of a smile that makes my chest do something uncomfortable.

But it's what she's carrying that makes possessive heat flood my bloodstream.

The purple thermal mug. My purple thermal mug, gripped in hands covered by my insulated gloves.

She's using the gifts I left her. Wearing them. Carrying them around town like...

Like she belongs here.

Three mornings I've been up at sunrise on Cascade Ridge, watching the trail light up with the break of day like some lovesick idiot, waiting to see if she'd show.

She hasn't.

But she's been using my gifts, and that has to mean something.

"Jamie?" Charlie's voice cuts through my caveman thoughts. "You still with me, man?"

"Yeah," I manage, forcing myself to look away from Brooke long enough to focus on his face. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

Charlie follows my gaze and his grin widens. "Ah. Dr. Shields looks nice today."

Nice doesn't begin to cover it. She looks like everything I've been trying not to want. Like home and heat and the kind of woman who'd fight beside you instead of running when things get complicated.

Like the opposite of everything the woman who left me was.

I watch Chase hold the truck door for her, and the spike of jealousy that shoots through me is completely irrational. Chase is a good kid. Professional. Part of my team.

But the way he's looking at her, like she's some kind of miracle that wandered into our mountain town...

Back off, Morrison.

"She fits here," Charlie observes, still watching them approach. "Doesn't she? Odd for an out-of-towner to adapt so well, huh?"

He's right, and that terrifies me.

Because Rebecca never fit. Even when she was trying, even when she was wearing the right clothes and saying the right things, there was always something... forced about it.

Like she was playing a role instead of living her life.

But Brooke, walking across the festival grounds with that easy smile, stopping to admire Etta and Mabel's booth... she moves like she belongs here.

The way she leans in, genuinely interested as Mabel shows her those hand-knitted scarves. The gentle laugh that carries across the crowd when Etta says something that makes her eyes crinkle at the corners. The casual wave she gives to my sister at the bakery stall.

She's not performing small-town charm… she's absorbing it, reflecting it back in ways that feel authentic.