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

"Oh, there will be," Piper says with smug satisfaction. "Love you, babe. Don't overthink everything."

The line goes dead, leaving me alone with my coffee and the absurd idea that I should intentionally be bad at something.

Which is exactly when my eyes land on the neat stack of firewood beside the cabin.

Sure enough, half an hour and three more YouTube tutorials later, I'm standing in my athletic wear freezing my ass off in the cold mountain air.

Because apparently I packed for a mountain spa retreat. Not actual wilderness living.

I move across the yard and stare at an axe that weighs approximately the same as a small child.

The wood-chopping area behind the cabin is clearly set up for someone who actually knows what they're doing. There's a proper chopping block, a neat stack of logs waiting to be split, and even a covered area to keep everything dry.

Be bad at something that doesn't matter, Piper's voice echoes in my head.

Well, if I'm going to fail at something, might as well be spectacularly.

I picked up the axe with confidence. I recall the three YouTube videos. I've got excellent hand-eye coordination and core strength from years of Pilates classes squeezed between eighteen-hour shifts at the hospital.

This should be simple.

I position a log on the chopping block, lift the axe over my head with what I hope looks like mountain woman competence.

"Argh!"

I bring the axe down with all the force I can muster and… the axe bounces off the log like it's made of rubber.

"Shit."

The vibration shoots up my arms and nearly makes me drop the handle entirely.

"What the hell?" I stare at the log, which doesn't even have a dent in it. "How is this harder than performing cardiac surgery?"

Maybe it's about physics. Force distribution. Angle of approach. I've successfully repaired human hearts, surely I can figure out how to split a piece of wood.

I try again, this time with more strategic thinking, adjusting my grip and focusing on precision over brute force.

This time, the axe hits the wood and immediately sticks, but instead of splitting cleanly, the whole log goes flying off the block and crashes into a decorative planter, sending dirt and beautiful pink alpine flowers everywhere.

"Shit, shit, shit," I mutter, dropping the axe to survey the damage.

Soil cascades over the wooden deck like brown confetti, and what used to be a perfectly arranged display of mountain wildflowers now looks like a crime scene. The ceramic planter is cracked down one side, and there's dirt in my hair.

This is exactly the kind of thing that would have sent me into a full panic spiral six months ago.

Proof that I can't handle anything outside my controlled hospital environment.

Evidence that I'm failing at yet another thing, that maybe I really am just a workaholic surgeon who can't function in the real world.

But you know what? I'm not in surgery right now. No one's life depends on my ability to split wood.

This is just... a learning experience in spectacular failure.

Exactly what Piper ordered.

I drag the log back to the chopping block, brush dirt off my yoga pants, and grip the axe handle with renewed determination.

"Okay, mountain life," I say out loud, staring at the log. Heavy metal music starts playing from somewhere nearby, and I can't quite tell where it's coming from, but the fast beat seems to match my determination. "Let's see just how bad I can be at this."

The next swing is marginally better. The axe actually stays in the wood instead of bouncing off, but now it's stuck so deep I can't get it out.

I pull and twist and leverage my entire body weight against the handle, until finally—

CRACK.

The log splits with such sudden force that I stumble backward, arms windmilling wildly as I try to keep my balance.

My foot catches on something—maybe the axe handle, maybe just my own lack of coordination—and I go down hard, landing on my ass in the dirt with pieces of split wood scattered around me.

For a moment, I just sit there in the wreckage of my mountain woman fantasy, covered in dirt and probably looking like I've been wrestling bears.

Then I start laughing.

Not the bitter, exhausted laugh I've been doing for months, but actual, genuine amusement at the absurdity of my situation.

Dr. Brooke Shields, trauma surgeon extraordinaire, defeated by a piece of firewood and a decorative planter.

This is what Piper meant.

This feeling of doing something completely ridiculous without the weight of life-or-death consequences. When's the last time I've been this gloriously, harmlessly incompetent at something?

"Well," I say, picking splinters out of my hair. "Mission accomplished. I am definitely bad at this, and it definitely doesn't matter."

That's when I hear it.

A rhythmic thunk, thunk, thunk coming from the same direction of the music.

That music that I heard… yeah, that's definitely real. I haven't completely lost my mind. It's not in my head at all, and the fast beat of the drums is matching the heavy sound of an axe hitting wood with perfect, consistent precision.

Someone who actually knows what they're doing.

Curiosity gets the better of me, and I dust myself off, creeping toward the sound. There's a tall wooden fence separating my rental property from whatever's next door, but if I stand on my tiptoes near the corner and crane my neck just right...

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

The man in the yard next to mine is... well, let's just say he's not struggling with wood-chopping technique.

At all.

Thick dark hair falls across his forehead, damp with exertion, and sweet mother of pearl, the man is built like a fantasy.

Broad shoulders, a narrow waist, every muscle defined and flexing with each movement.

And this isn't gym muscle.

This is real, functional strength earned through actual labor.

I watch him position another log, the movement making his back muscles ripple. He lifts the axe overhead, biceps bulging, abs contracting, and I swear I can see the individual ridges of muscle across his torso.

When he brings the blade down, the wood splits with a satisfying crack that reverberates through my core and settles somewhere much lower.

No bouncing. No sticking. No dramatic tumbling into decorative planters.

Just pure, masculine competence that makes heat pool between my thighs and my brain temporarily forget how to form thoughts that don't involve licking the sweat off his chest.

Jesus fucking Christ on a cracker.

I'm completely mesmerized.

Like, full-on sexual awakening happening behind this fence while I watch a stranger split wood like some kind of lumberjack porn fantasy come to life.

A bead of sweat trails down his spine before disappearing into the waistband of jeans that hug what can only be described as the most spectacular ass I've ever had the privilege to ogle.

The denim clings to powerful thighs and… God help me … outlines what appears to be a very generous package in the front.

My nipples tighten against my sports bra, and there's a definite pulse of want between my legs.

The mental image of him using that same focused intensity on my body, of those hands gripping my hips, that mouth trailing down my neck…

All of it makes me actually whimper out loud.

When's the last time I felt this immediate, visceral attraction to anyone? This desperate urge to climb a man like my personal jungle gym?

Never. The answer is never.

He sets up another log. The axe lifts over his head, and holy hell, the way his entire torso elongates and tightens is like watching pure sex in motion.

I can see the definition of every ab muscle, the way his chest expands with each breath, the tantalizing trail of dark hair that disappears below his belt—

And then he stops.

Completely freezes mid-swing and turns his head directly toward my hiding spot behind the fence.

Shit, shit, shit.

Deep blue eyes lock onto mine through the gap in the wooden slats, and the intensity of his stare sends liquid fire straight to my core. His gaze is molten, assessing, with a heat that suggests he's fully aware of the effect he's having on me.

My entire body flushes with arousal and embarrassment in equal measure. Those eyes aren't just blue—they're the deep blue-gray of a stormy ocean, with gold flecks that seem to burn right through me.

"Enjoying the show?" His deep voice is low, rough, with a gravelly edge that vibrates through me and settles between my legs like a caress.

The sound alone is enough to make me clench my thighs together again, fighting the urge to moan out loud at how stupidly turned on I am by three simple words.

I should probably say something.

Apologize for creeping on my neighbor.

Introduce myself like a normal human being instead of a sexually frustrated voyeur.

Instead, my brain leaves me speechless and trembling with want as I stare at this gorgeous, half-naked man who just caught me eye-fucking him through a fence.

Because holy hell.

If this is what the locals look like in Stone River Mountain, my three-month recovery plan just became infinitely more complicated.

And Piper's joke about sexy mountain men who chop wood shirtless?

Yeah. That woman is clearly psychic, and I owe her a very expensive bottle of wine.