Page 15 of Wrecked on the Mountain (Stone River Mountain #2)

She hands me tools when I ask, asks intelligent questions about the engine mechanics, compares it to surgery one too many times, and doesn't flinch when I have to get creative with my language regarding Chase's mechanical skills.

"There," I finally say, wiping my hands on a rag as the engine purrs to life. I shoot a hard glare across to Chase who hasn't moved a fucking inch the entire time. "Try not to break it again before morning."

"No promises," Chase grins, but he looks relieved that he won't have to explain to the town council why we don't have operational rescue vehicles.

Knox claps me on the shoulder. "Thanks for coming in, Strike. We owe you one."

"I mean what I said. You owe me breakfast for a month," I correct. "Both of you."

The drive back to our cabins is quiet, comfortable in a way that surprises me. Brooke sits curled in the passenger seat, still clutching that purple mug like a talisman, and I can feel some of the tension from earlier melting away.

"Thank you," she says as I pull into her driveway. "For letting me come. That was... exactly what I needed."

"No one should spend their birthday alone on their porch," I say, hand shaking as I continue to contemplate reaching across and grabbing her thigh. "You ever need some company, you know where to find me. Okay?"

She smiles and starts to get out of the truck, and I make a decision that's either brilliant or completely stupid.

"Brooke, wait."

She stills on the edge of the seat, looking over her shoulder at me. "What is it?"

Suddenly the air in the cab of my truck has disappeared. My throat has gone dry and the words are lodged in my throat.

"You… uh… you want some hot chocolate?" I ask. "My mom's recipe. The one you like. The real stuff, not the powder."

She pauses with her hand on the door handle, and I can see the internal debate playing out on her face.

We both know what I'm really asking.

We both know that going into my cabin at midnight, after the kiss we shared, after the way we've been circling each other for days, is dangerous territory.

"I should probably..." she starts, then stops.

She looks at me for a long moment, those gorgeous eyes searching my face for something I hope I'm giving her.

"Okay," she says finally. "But only because I love your mom's hot chocolate."

I practically lunge out of my truck, nearly tripping over my own boots to get her inside before she changes her mind.

By the time I reach my door, my heart is hammering against my ribs like I'm back in basic training, and I have to force myself to take a steadying breath.

Somehow, the prospect of having Brooke in my space, in my home, has me more nervous than dangling from a helicopter in high winds.

Luckily, my cabin at night is warmer, cozier than during the day. The fireplace is still glowing with embers from the log I threw on before I went to bed, and I can see Brooke taking in the details as I turn on a few lamps in the living room.

"This is beautiful," she says, settling onto my couch like she belongs there. "Did you build this yourself?"

She looks around the hand-hewn beams, the leather furniture, what would be the view of the valley through the wall of windows if it wasn't so dark outside.

"Most of it." I move toward the kitchen, pulling out the ingredients for Mom's famous hot chocolate recipe.

Real chocolate, heavy cream, a touch of cinnamon and vanilla that makes it taste like comfort in a mug.

"Took me three years, working on it between rescue calls and deployments.

Beau helped me with some of it, when he was feeling up to it. "

I can hear her moving around the living room, probably looking at the old military photographs on the mantle, the books scattered across the coffee table. Usually I'd be worried about having to share too much of my past, but with Brooke, I'm not that bothered that she's seeing this side of me.

She's making herself at home in a way that should terrify me… but somehow doesn't.

"Is this all of your family?" she calls out.

"Yeah." I glance over to see her studying a group photo from last Christmas—all of us crowded around Mom's dining table, arguing over who gets the last piece of pie. "They're loud and opinionated and completely impossible."

"They look perfect," she says softly.

I think about Mom's not-so-subtle suggestion that I invite Brooke to Sunday dinner the other day.

How she's probably already planning the menu and wondering if Brooke has any food allergies.

Rebecca always found excuses to avoid those dinners, saying they were too loud, too chaotic, too much small-town family drama for her taste.

But after seeing her at the festival today, I think Brooke would love it.

"Mom wants me to invite you to Sunday dinner," I say before I can talk myself out of it. "Fair warning, it's complete chaos. Three sisters, their opinions about everything, and Mom asking personal questions she has no business asking."

I'm already preparing for her polite decline, the careful explanation about not wanting to intrude on family time.

"That sounds nice," Brooke says simply, still looking at the photo.

I nearly drop the whisk I'm holding.

Because there's something wistful in her voice that makes me want to pull her against my chest and promise her she'll always have a place at that table. Instead, I focus on whisking the chocolate mixture, trying to talk myself out of doing something monumentally stupid.

Like telling her I'm already half in love with her.

Like asking her to stay past her three-month contract despite the fact she's only one week into it.

Like carrying her upstairs to my bed and showing her exactly how much I want her.

But I need to keep this simple. Give her some hot chocolate. A polite conversation. Then she goes home.

I spend the next ten minutes perfecting the hot drinks and by the time I turn around with two steaming mugs, ready to sit on the opposite end of the couch and maintain a safe distance, I find Brooke curled up in the corner of my leather sofa.

Fast asleep.

She's tucked her feet under her, one hand still clutching the throw pillow, her silky hair falling across her face in soft waves. In sleep, she looks younger, peaceful in a way I haven't seen since she arrived in Stone River.

I set the mugs down on the coffee table and grab the wool blanket from the back of the couch, draping it carefully over her shoulders.

She shifts slightly, murmuring something I can't quite catch, but doesn't wake.

Standing there in my living room, watching this brilliant, beautiful woman sleep on my couch after the day we've shared, I feel something settle in my chest that I haven't felt in seven years.

Hope.

Tomorrow morning, if she's still on my sofa, I'll wake her and we'll go to the sunrise spot. Together. We'll watch the sun come up over the mountains, and maybe I'll finally tell her what she's starting to mean to me.

But tonight, she's here. Safe and warm in my home, surrounded by my things, looking like she belongs exactly where she is.

And you know what?

At least she's not alone on her birthday this year.