Page 27 of Wrecked on the Mountain (Stone River Mountain #2)

Chapter Fifteen

Brooke

I'm standing in front of my bathroom mirror, having what can only be described as a full-scale fashion crisis.

The soft burgundy dress that Jamie's going to lose his mind over is hanging perfectly on my body. My hair is cooperating for once, falling around my shoulders in a way that actually looks intentional. Even my makeup managed to cover the last traces of yesterday's migraine.

I look good.

Really good.

So why am I having a panic attack?

"It's just Sunday dinner," I tell my reflection, adjusting the neckline for the fifth time. "People eat food together. You know how to eat food, Brooke."

My reflection doesn't look convinced, probably because she knows the truth: I've never met a boyfriend's parents before.

Ever.

My dating life has pretty much consisted of medical school study partners and exhausted residents who barely had time for coffee, let alone family introductions.

But Jamie...

Jamie talks about his family like they're the center of his universe. Like Sunday dinner is sacred ground where outsiders either get blessed or burned at the stake. There's no in-between and by the sounds of it, definitely no second chances.

No pressure, Brooke.

A knock at my door makes me jump, sending my carefully applied mascara careening toward my temple.

"Shit," I mutter, grabbing a cotton swab to quickly fix the damage.

"You ready, sweetheart?" Jamie's voice calls through the door, and just the sound of it makes my pulse spike.

"Almost!" I lie, because I'll never be ready for this level of emotional vulnerability.

"You know Mom has probably set the table already, right?"

I take a steadying breath and open it to find Jamie leaning against the doorframe. He's wearing a navy button-down that makes his eyes look like storm clouds. His hair is still damp from a shower, and he smells like soap and pure masculine confidence.

Fuck me.

Even nervous about meeting his family, my body responds to him like he's gravity and I'm a woman who's forgotten how to fly.

"You look..." His gaze lingers hungrily on the deep V of my dress, where the burgundy fabric dips low enough to showcase the swell of my breasts pressed together by my best push-up bra. "Jesus, Brooke. You trying to give my dad a heart attack?"

Heat floods my cheeks as I glance down at my cleavage.

"Is it too much? Maybe I should wear something that doesn't make my boobs look like they're about to spill out—"

"Don't you dare." He steps inside, closing the door behind him. His hand starts to reach toward my chest, clearly intending to trace the edge of the neckline. "You look perfect. Beautiful. My sisters are going to lose their minds, and I'm going to spend all dinner trying not to stare at your—"

I smack his wandering hand away with a laugh. "Jamie Striker! We are not going to your family dinner after you've felt me up two seconds before we walk out the door."

"We could be a little late," he suggests with a wicked grin, eyes still glued to my tits.

"Absolutely not."

I disappear into my kitchen and return with the apple pie I spent three hours making this morning, complete with a perfectly golden lattice crust that looks like it belongs in a magazine.

Jamie stares at it. "You made that?"

"I keep telling you… YouTube is a wonderful teacher." I hand him the pie, feeling proud and terrified in equal measure.

"It didn't help you with woodchopping, but this…" His eyes gape and a feeling of pride washes over me.

"Think it'll buy me some goodwill?"

"Sweetheart," he looks at the pie like it's made of gold, "this might just get you adopted. Come on, let's go."

The drive to Jamie's family home takes fifteen minutes through winding roads that showcase Stone River Mountain at its most breathtaking. Snow-covered pine trees line the route like sentries, and the setting sun paints everything in shades of amber and rose gold.

"One more time please. Tell me about them again," I say, gripping my purse like a lifeline. "Your family."

Jamie glances over with an amused smile. "You've already heard this three times."

"Shut up. I'm having a moment."

"Mom's name is Sandra. She owns the flower shop downtown and will probably hug you before you get through the front door. Dad's Gavin—he's the strong, silent type, but don't let that fool you. He notices everything."

He turns onto a gravel driveway lined with old-growth maples, their bare branches creating a canopy overhead.

"Then there's Maya, thirty-two, elementary school teacher, married to Sean, they have twin boys who are basically tiny tornadoes.

Chloe's twenty-nine, owns the bakery, single and loving it, will probably interrogate you about your intentions.

And Zoe's twenty-six, graphic designer, recently moved back from New York, dating the town vet. "

"And they're all going to be there?" I ask, wondering if it's too late to fake the brutal return of my migraine.

"Every Sunday. All of them. Plus the twins. And probably the dog."

"The dog?"

"Ranger. He's a golden retriever with boundary issues and a serious addiction to attention."

The house comes into view around the final bend, and I actually gasp.

It's not just a house—it's a home .

A sprawling farmhouse with a wraparound porch, warm light spilling from every window, and smoke curling from a stone chimney. Icicles hang from the eaves like nature's chandelier, and someone has strung fairy lights along the porch railing that twinkle against the approaching dusk.

"Oh my god, Jamie," I breathe. "You grew up here? It's beautiful ."

"Wait until you see the inside," he says, parking next to a collection of trucks and SUVs that suggest the entire Striker clan has indeed assembled for the occasion.

He helps me down the steps of his truck and before I can spiral into another wave of panic, the front door flies open and a massive golden ball of fur comes bounding down the porch steps, followed by two small boys who can't be more than six years old.

"Uncle Jamie!" they shriek in unison, launching themselves at him the second he gets out of the truck.

"Hey, monsters," Jamie laughs, scooping them both up like they weigh nothing. "Where's your mom?"

"Inside yelling at Aunt Chloe about the potatoes," one of them says.

"And Grandma made us wash our hands three times already," adds the other.

That's when Ranger the golden retriever reaches me, tail wagging so hard his entire body wiggles. He immediately plants his front paws on my dress and looks up at me with the kind of adoration usually reserved for saints.

"Well hello, handsome," I say, scratching behind his ears. "Aren't you gorgeous?"

"He likes you," Jamie observes, still holding a twin under each arm. "That's a good sign."

"Or he's just plotting to steal my pie," I reply, but I'm smiling because it's impossible not to love this enthusiastic welcome committee.

"JAMIE MICHAEL STRIKER!"

The voice booms from the porch, and I look up to see his mother standing in the doorway. She's beautiful. Silver-streaked brown hair, Jamie's blue eyes, and a smile that's warm despite the shrieking yell that pierces the quiet night sky.

"You get up here right now and introduce me to this lovely girl!"

Jamie sets the twins down with a grin. "Yes, ma'am."

He offers me his arm with mock formality. "Dr. Shields, may I present the Striker family firing squad?"

Jamie's Mom envelops me in a hug before I even reach the top step, and it's the kind of hug that makes you understand why Jamie turned out the way he did. Warm, fierce, and absolutely genuine.

"Brooke! Oh, honey, you're even prettier than Betty said. Come in, come in, you must be freezing!"

Before I can process the town apparently commenting on my looks behind my back, I'm being swept into the house and handed a glass of wine.

The interior is everything the outside promised. Old exposed beams, a massive stone fireplace crackling with warmth, and the kind of comfortable, lived-in furniture that invites you to curl up with a book and a cup of tea and stay forever.

But it's the smell that really gets me.

Roast lamb with garlic and rosemary. Buttery mashed potatoes. Fresh bread. And underneath it all, the sweet scent of baking apples and cinnamon.

It smells like home. Like the kind of Sunday dinners I used to dream about as a kid eating cereal alone.

"Mom, you're overwhelming her," comes a voice from the kitchen doorway, and I turn to see a woman who looks like a younger version of Sandra, flour dusted across her apron.

"I am not overwhelming anyone," Sandra protests. "I'm being welcoming."

"You're being a lot," the woman laughs, extending a flour-dusted hand. "I'm Chloe, the sister with actual boundaries. Welcome to the chaos."

"Brooke," I reply, shaking her hand. "And I love chaos."

"Good," says another voice, and a third woman appears carrying a casserole dish. "Because you're about to get a lot of it. I'm Maya, and those terrors who attacked Jamie are mine."

The twins have followed us inside and are now climbing all over Jamie like he's their personal jungle gym, while Ranger has positioned himself strategically near my legs, clearly hoping for dropped food.

"And I'm Zoe," says the youngest sister, emerging from the kitchen. "The one who's going to ask all the inappropriate questions."

"Perfect," I say, raising my wine glass. "I love inappropriate questions."

All three sisters exchange looks, and I can practically see them deciding if I might be worth keeping around.

"Where's Dad?" Jamie asks, finally extricating himself from the twins.

"In his chair, pretending he's not dying to meet Brooke," Sandra replies with a grin. "Gavin! Stop brooding and come say hello!"

Jamie's father appears from the living room. He has the same build, same coloring, but with gray hair and the kind of weathered face that speaks of decades spent outdoors.

He gives me a once-over that's thorough but not unkind.

"So you're the doctor," he says simply.

"Guilty," I reply, meeting his gaze steadily.