Page 18 of Wrecked on the Mountain (Stone River Mountain #2)

Chapter Ten

Jamie

I'm trying to focus on navigating this snowmobile through the forest, but having Brooke pressed against my back is making it damn near impossible to think straight.

Her arms are wrapped around my waist, tight enough that I can feel every breath she takes. Every time we hit a bump or take a sharp turn, she squeezes closer, and I swear I can feel the soft press of her breasts against my back even through our heavy winter gear.

Goddammit. There's someone who needs help. Focus!

But Christ, the way she laughed when I showed off on that last jump, her voice right against my ear saying "This is incredible!" - it's taking every ounce of self-control I have not to pull over and finish what we started in my kitchen.

The radio crackles through my helmet. It's Travis back in the radio control room. "Strike, you're about two minutes out. The vehicle is down the embankment, passenger side against a cluster of pine trees."

I tap the radio button on my chest harness, tightening my grip on the handlebars as I steer us around a snowbank. "Copy that. Any update on the driver's condition?"

"Conscious and responsive. Appears to be a middle-aged male, complaining of chest pain but no visible trauma."

Chest pain. Could be anything from the seat belt to cardiac issues. Good thing I've got the best trauma surgeon in three states wrapped around me like a beautiful, distracting backpack.

I ease off the throttle as we near the accident site, the snowmobile's engine purring down from a roar to a gentle rumble beneath us.

Brooke's arms, which have been acting as my own personal heated safety harness, loosen just slightly around my waist. The immediate absence of her warmth against my back hits me like stepping out of a hot shower into a cold bathroom

"There," she says, pointing toward the treeline where I can just make out the back end of a silver SUV that's somehow managed to wedge itself between two massive pines about thirty feet down the slope.

I park the snowmobile and we both climb off, grabbing our gear from the back. The moment Brooke starts moving, her entire demeanor shifts into something I've never seen before.

Dr. Brooke Shields, trauma surgeon, has entered the building.

She's checking her medical kit with the kind of systematic efficiency that speaks to years of life-or-death training. Every movement is swift, confident, like she's done this a thousand times before.

And goddamn if it isn’t the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

Her face goes from laughing-in-the-snow playful to razor-sharp and focused in half a second flat. Her jaw is tight, eyes scanning the terrain as she works the medic bag open, mouth set in a soft but determined line that makes it hard to look anywhere else.

And when she stands up, there's the walk. Jesus .

It's like a damn power-walk.

Like she’s about to dominate a runway and save a life all in the same breath. Long strides. Hips swaying like sin under those snow pants and that high ponytail bouncing like it’s got its own mission briefing.

She's like a hotter version of Battlefield Barbie. With a scalpel in one hand and my sanity in the other.

"How's your climbing?" I ask, gesturing toward the steep, snow-covered slope we'll need to navigate to reach the vehicle.

"Better than my wood-chopping," she replies with a grin.

I’m about to explain the best approach down the slope when Brooke bends over to grab something else from her medical bag.

And I nearly drop mine.

Her jacket hikes up just enough to reveal a stretch of bare lower back, soft and golden skin exposed against the cold air. And right there, peeking over the waistband of her snow pants, is a teasing triangle of black lace.

She's wearing a g-string. Out here. In the snow. On a medical rescue.

The curve of her ass fills out those pants beautifully, tight enough to make me bite the inside of my cheek. Perfect, round, devastating. The kind of ass that makes a man believe in fate.

Or karma.

Or maybe just very dirty miracles.

Fuck. I forget what day it is. I forget my own name. I forget what I'm even doing here.

"You good there, Strike?" she asks, glancing over her shoulder with one brow raised.

I clear my throat, trying not to look like I’m on the verge of combusting. "Yeah. Just... calculating the safest route down."

Sure. That’s what I was doing.

Not obsessing over the exact angle I’d like to grab her hips and bend her over.

I manage to snap to it and get the blood circulating back in my head.

Getting down to the SUV takes about ten minutes of careful maneuvering through snow and around trees. When we reach the driver's side, I can see our patient. He's a man in his fifties, conscious but pale, gripping the steering wheel like it's the only thing keeping him upright.

"Sir, I'm Jamie with Mountain Rescue," I call through the partially open window. "This is Dr. Shields. We're here to help."

The man's eyes immediately go to Brooke, and I watch something incredible happen.

Her voice drops into this calm, authoritative tone that somehow manages to be both soothing and completely in control. "Hi there, I'm Dr. Shields. Can you tell me your name?"

"Robert," he says, wincing. "My chest... it really hurts."

"Okay, Robert. I'm going to ask you some questions while my partner here assesses the vehicle situation. Are you having trouble breathing?"

While Brooke starts her medical evaluation, I circle the SUV to check for structural damage, fuel leaks, anything that might make this extraction more complicated than it needs to be.

But I keep finding myself watching her work.

She's... fucking incredible.

The way she's talking Robert through everything she's doing, explaining her assessment in terms he can understand while simultaneously gathering the information she needs. Her hands are steady as she checks his pulse, examines his pupils, palpates his abdomen for internal injuries.

This isn't the woman who couldn't split a piece of firewood to save her life. This is a surgeon who's spent years in trauma bays, making split-second decisions that mean the difference between life and death.

"Robert, I need you to try to take a slow, deep breath for me," she says, placing her stethoscope against his chest through the open window. "That's it. Good. One more for me."

She catches my eye over the roof of the car and gives me a subtle shake of her head. Not cardiac. Probably muscular from the impact.

How the hell did she determine that so quickly?

"Jamie," she calls out, "can you check if we've got room to open the passenger door? I want to get a better look at his ribs before we think about moving him."

I move around to the passenger side, where the SUV is pressed up against the pine trees but not completely blocked. "Yeah, we can get it open, but it's going to be tight."

"That's fine. Robert, we're going to move you very carefully. I want to make sure you haven't injured your ribs or sternum."

The next five minutes is like watching a master class in field medicine. Brooke guides Robert through every movement, constantly assessing his condition while I handle the technical aspects of extraction and organize a medical vehicle to meet us on the road above.

She's talking him through the possibility of bruised ribs from the seatbelt, explaining that chest pain after an accident is common but that she wants to be thorough. All while maneuvering in snow and working around the limitations of a vehicle that's basically become a metal pretzel.

"You military?" Robert asks as Brooke carefully examines his torso, and I realize he's looking at me.

"Yes, sir. Former Army Ranger," I reply automatically. "Did three tours in Afghanistan."

"I can tell," he says with a grimace as Brooke palpates his ribs. "You move like military. My son's Navy. Deployment ends next month."

Something loosens in my chest that I wasn't aware was tight. It's been a long time since someone recognized that part of me in a positive way. Rebecca always acted like my military background was something to be ashamed of, like it marked me as damaged goods.

"What's his MOS?" I ask, using proper military terminology for his job classification.

"Aviation electronics," Robert says, then looks between Brooke and me. "You two work well together. Been partners long?"

I feel heat creep up my neck under my beard. "We're... uh..."

"She's new to the team," I manage, but Robert's smile suggests he's not buying the professional-only explanation.

"Right," he says, wincing again as Brooke checks his shoulder range of motion. "Must be tough, working with your wife out here. Dangerous job."

Wife.

The word hits me like a sledgehammer to the chest.

Brooke doesn't even pause in her examination, but I catch the slight smile that tugs at the corner of her mouth.

"Oh, we're not married," she says casually, not looking up from her work. "He's way too grumpy for that."

Too grumpy.

The comment hits me right in the fucking gut like a physical blow.

Because that's what Rebecca said, wasn't it? Not in those exact words, but the sentiment was the same. That I was too serious, too rigid, too set in my ways for someone like her.

Too grumpy for love.

Too grumpy to be worth staying for.

I force myself to focus on securing Robert's extraction route, but Brooke's words keep echoing in my head.

Too grumpy.

Like it's a given. Like of course someone like her wouldn't want someone like me.

"Well," Robert says, clearly trying to lighten the mood, "grumpy or not, you two make a hell of a team. Haven't felt this safe since the accident happened."

The rest of the extraction goes smoothly. Robert's injuries are minor - some bruised ribs, mild whiplash, and a sore shoulder from the impact.

Nothing that requires emergency transport, but Brooke insists on monitoring him for another thirty minutes to make sure there are no delayed symptoms.