Page 14 of Wrecked on the Mountain (Stone River Mountain #2)

Chapter Eight

Jamie

That kiss. That kiss!

Lying here in my king-size bed, staring at the ceiling while moonlight filters through the windows, all I can think about is the way Brooke melted against me in that warming tent.

The soft sound she made when I deepened the kiss.

How her hands fisted in my jacket like she was drowning and I was her lifeline.

Fuck.

I roll over and punch my pillow, trying to find a position that doesn't make me think about her lips, her taste, the way she looked at me when we broke apart.

Like I was something worth staying for.

That's the problem. That look.

Because I've seen it before, and I know how this story ends.

Rebecca looked at me like that too, in the beginning. Like Stone River Mountain was exactly where she wanted to be, like I was exactly who she wanted to be with.

Right up until the moment she decided we weren't enough anymore.

But Brooke... Christ, Brooke was different today.

The way she handled the polar plunge, laughing and waving to the crowd afterward like she'd been born to this community.

How she let Betty fuss over her, accepted congratulations from people she barely knows, looked genuinely happy to be part of something bigger than herself.

After the warming tent, we'd rejoined the festival.

I watched her demolish a plate of Murphy's Smokehouse bourbon-glazed ribs while sitting cross-legged on a blanket beside the fire pit, sauce on her chin and absolutely zero concern for looking refined.

When Etta and Mabel dragged her over to judge their "Best Winter Romance Scarf" contest, she took it seriously, examining each entry like she was awarding a Nobel Prize.

And when the string quartet started playing and couples began dancing on the makeshift floor Betty had convinced the town council to install, Brooke didn't look around awkwardly or make excuses to leave.

She just sat there, mulled wine in hand, watching with the kind of soft smile that made my chest tight.

Like she belonged.

Like she wanted to belong.

I drag my hands through my hair and force myself to focus on facts instead of fantasies.

Fact: She's temporary. Three months, then back to Chicago.

Fact: She's brilliant, accomplished, the kind of woman who could work anywhere in the world.

Fact: Stone River Mountain is a small town in the middle of nowhere, and I'm just a mountain rescue coordinator with commitment issues and a fucked-up track record with city women.

But then I remember the way she kissed me back, like she'd been waiting for it as long as I had. The way she whispered "yes" when I asked her to meet me at sunrise tomorrow, no hesitation, no conditions.

Maybe this time is different.

Maybe, if I could just get some fucking sleep, I could—

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, cutting through my spiral with the harsh reality of always-on-the-call work. The display shows Knox's name, which means something's wrong at the station.

"What's the situation?" I answer, already swinging my legs out of bed.

"Sorry to bother you, Strike," Knox's voice crackles through the speaker. "But we've got a problem with the snowmobiles. Neither one will start, and with this weather system moving in tomorrow, we need them operational."

I glance at the clock: 11:47 PM. "Chase can't figure it out?"

"Chase is the one who broke them," Knox replies with irritation. "Something about 'routine maintenance' that turned into 'complete engine failure.'"

Of course. Chase Morrison, expert in everything except knowing when to stop helping.

"Fucks sake. I'll be there in twenty," I say, launching out of bed to throw some clothes on. "Tell Chase he's buying breakfast for the next month."

"Copy that."

To be fair, I'm actually grateful for the distraction as I dress quickly in cargo pants and a thermal shirt. Anything to get my mind off Brooke's mouth, the way her body felt pressed against mine, the promise of tomorrow morning at my sunrise spot.

I grab my jacket and truck keys, ready to lose myself in the familiar routine of fixing things that actually have solutions.

But when I slam the front door to my cabin shut, I see her.

Brooke is sitting on her porch in the dark, wrapped in what looks like a thick blanket, the purple travel mug I gave her cradled in her hands while she stares at something in her lap.

What the hell is she doing out here? It's freezing!

I change course, my boots crunching through the snow as I approach her cabin. The wind howls down the dark street and I move my legs faster. She looks up when she hears me coming, and even in the dim porch light, I can see something vulnerable in her expression.

"I know you city folk are crazy, but what the fuck are you doing sitting outside in the cold?" I ask, probably more gruffly than necessary.

She gives me a small smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Couldn't sleep. You?"

"Work call." I gesture toward my truck, then notice what's spread across her lap. "What you looking at?"

Her hands move protectively over a spread of photographs, like she's about to hide them, but then she seems to change her mind. She holds up a small photograph, and even from where I'm standing, I can see it's her as a kid, maybe seven or eight years old, sitting on a man's lap.

They're both grinning at the camera, and she's leaning forward to blow out a single candle stuck in what looks like a donut covered in rainbow sprinkles.

Her dad. Has to be.

"Birthday tradition," she says quietly, setting the photo back in her lap. "Dad always got me a sprinkle donut instead of cake. Said birthdays should be about the simple things that make you smile."

The loneliness in her voice makes me regret just dropping her off after the festival and going home. She's been sitting out here in the cold, looking at pictures of her dead father on her birthday. I should have been here with her.

Feeling frustrated but unsure how to fix it, I notice she takes a sip from the purple mug, and something about the way she savors it makes me suspicious.

"Please tell me you're not drinking wine out of my travel mug," I say.

She looks down at the mug, then back at me with a cute smile. "Okay. I won't tell you that."

"Christ, Brooke. Don't the damn landlords have wine glasses inside?"

"They do." She takes another deliberate sip, smacking her lips together. "I just really like this mug."

The way she's holding that thirty-dollar travel mug like it's some kind of precious heirloom makes me want to buy her a dozen more just to see that soft look in her eyes again.

Christ.

"You want to come with me?" I ask impulsively. "Take your mind off things for a while?"

She looks surprised by the offer. "To work?"

"To fix Chase's latest disaster, yes. Might be interesting if you've never seen a snowmobile engine up close."

For a moment, she hesitates, and I think she's going to say no. Then she looks down at the photos in her lap, back up at me, and sighs.

"Sure. Why not. Just let me grab my jacket."

She disappears inside for a minute and comes back wearing a thick winter coat over a top that clings to her body. When she climbs into my truck, the coat falls open, and I catch a glimpse of the V-neck cutting low enough to show the soft swell of her breasts.

Ample breasts.

The drive to the station takes fifteen minutes, and I spend most of it trying not to reach over and rest my hand on her thigh.

She's curled in the passenger seat, humming softly along to the radio like she doesn't realize she's doing it, and all I can think about is whether touching her would be crossing a line, or if that kiss earlier gives me the right to casual intimacy.

Casual intimacy? Who the hell am I?

The Mountain Rescue station at night is a different beast entirely. Emergency lighting makes everything a blue-white glow, and the banks of monitors tracking weather patterns, emergency frequencies, and GPS coordinates hum in the main hub.

This place is beautiful in a way most people wouldn't understand. All that technology working together to keep people safe… that's what my life is all about.

Brooke follows me inside and we find Knox hunched over one of the snowmobiles in the garage bay, tools scattered around him like surgical instruments. Chase sits nearby looking appropriately guilty, a coffee mug in his hands and grease streaked across his forehead.

"Well, well," Knox grins when he sees us walk in. "Brought backup, did you?"

"Brought someone who might actually know the difference between maintenance and sabotage," I reply, shooting Chase a look that makes him wince.

"It was an accident," Chase protests. "I was just trying to—"

"Don't." I hold up a hand. "Just... don't. Show me what you did."

While I examine the engine—which Chase has somehow managed to flood while simultaneously disconnecting half the electrical system—I'm aware of Brooke moving around the garage, asking Knox questions about the equipment, the rescue's he's done and how everything works together at night.

"This is so cool," she says, eyes glowing with excitement as she runs her fingers along the sleek body of the second snowmobile. The not fucked one. "How fast do they go?"

"Fast enough," Knox replies with a grin. "Jamie here can make these things fly across the snow like they're on rails. Does jumps on mounds of snow and all. Crazy bastard."

I glance up to find Brooke looking at me, and something warm unfurls in my chest. She's not just being polite. She actually thinks this is interesting.

"I'll teach you to ride one," I call out across the room. "After you get the hang of mountain driving, I'll take you to the best spot."

She beams so bright I feel like a fucking champion for bringing that look to her face. "I'd like that."

It takes an hour to fix Chase's mess, but having Brooke there makes the work go faster.