Page 3 of Wrecked on the Mountain (Stone River Mountain #2)

Chapter Two

Jamie

She's still watching me.

I slam the axe down one last time, the log splitting clean in half with a loud crack that echoes across the morning air. My favorite Metallica track pounds from my deck speakers, sweat dripping down my spine… but I'm not done with the show yet.

Not when my audience is this entertaining.

I should probably grab my flannel from the deck railing. Grab it and put it back on now that I've got an audience.

But where's the fun in that?

My new neighbor is staring at me like I'm the main course at an all-you-can-eat buffet.

Dr. Brooke Shields. The burned-out trauma surgeon from Chicago who's supposed to be joining our team for three months. My team.

I've seen her file, read her credentials, even stared at her professional headshot longer than I probably should have.

But that polished hospital photo didn't do justice to the woman currently gripping an axe in the yard over from mine. She has dirt smudged across her cheek and her auburn hair is escaping from what I assume used to be a neat ponytail.

I get a glimpse of those yoga pants, and Jesus Christ. They're hugging curves that would make a saint reconsider his vows.

Her mouth's slightly open, eyes locked on my chest like I'm some kind of lumberjack centerfold.

And yeah. I let her look.

She doesn't know who I am yet. Doesn't know that tomorrow morning she'll be walking into Mountain Rescue headquarters, where I'll be the one giving her orientation. Where I'll be her boss for the next three months.

The irony's too good to waste.

She's not what I expected. Honestly thought she'd be colder. More uptight big-city doctor energy. People like her come to Stone River all the time, usually looking for some kind of mountain therapy to put themselves back together before fucking off again.

But standing there in yoga pants and a fitted athletic top that shows off toned arms?

She's cute.

Real cute.

And completely out of her element.

I wipe sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand, squeeze my abs a little tighter, and start walking toward the fence that separates our properties.

"Careful," I say, pitching my voice low enough that she has to strain to hear it over the music. "You might pull something if you keep staring that hard."

The flush spreads down her neck, disappearing beneath the collar of her fitted athletic top. For a second, she looks like she might actually run back into her cabin and hide.

Then she lifts her chin with the kind of defiance that probably served her well in Chicago operating rooms.

"Wow," she says, gripping the axe handle tighter. "Confident, aren't you?"

I can't help but smile. There's the fire I was hoping to see. She's going to need that around here.

"Not confidence," I reply, enjoying the way her breath catches when I deliberately let my gaze travel down her body and back up. "Observation."

I nod toward the log she's been battling.

"So. You gonna split that thing, or just whisper encouragement at it?"

She glances down at the wood like she'd forgotten it existed, then back at me with a expression that's part irritation, part attraction, and entirely entertaining.

"I'm... warming up," she says, but there's a tremor in her voice that suggests she's anything but warmed up to the task.

"Sure you are." I shift against the fence, and her eyes immediately track the movement of my muscles. "Just don't take your leg off. Would hate to see you on my table already."

Fuck. That was almost a tell. Almost revealed that I know exactly who she is and why she's here.

But she's too distracted by what I assume is her first close encounter with a man who works with his hands to catch the slip.

Her gaze keeps drifting to my chest, my arms, the sweat still drying on my skin, and I can practically feel the heat radiating off her from three feet away.

She notices I'm watching and her posture jerks upright like someone just called her name. She fumbles with the axe, nearly drops it, then tries to look casual with a shake of her head and a renewed steely determination.

It's painful to watch.

She actually starts pretending to chop wood. She bends down and positions a log on her chopping block and takes a swing that's so pathetic the blade barely makes contact. More like she's gently introducing the axe to the wood rather than trying to split it.

But Jesus Christ.

All I notice are two ripe peaches wrapped in black spandex, begging for my hands. The curves of her ass make my mouth water, a delicious heart-shaped temptation that has my body instantly responding with primal hunger.

I lean against the fence, crossing my arms, and watch her make a complete disaster of the whole operation.

"You're gonna want to actually swing that thing," I call out, not bothering to hide my amusement. "Wood doesn't respond well to gentle suggestions."

She startles but doesn't look at me. Just grips the handle tighter and squares her shoulders like she's about to perform surgery instead of split firewood.

"I was warming up," she says, voice pitched a little too casual.

"Warming up." I nod slowly, grinning. "Right. How's that working out for you?"

She whips her head toward me, and I get my first real look at her face.

Fuck me.

Those brown eyes are even more striking in person than in her professional headshot. Warm honey with gold flecks, framed by long, dark lashes that are definitely natural.

Her cheeks are flushed pink. Utterly adorable. The flush could be from exertion, or from being caught staring at my abs.

Either way, the color looks good on her.

"You know," she says, shifting the axe to rest against her shoulder, "some people find unsolicited advice incredibly annoying."

There's that fire again. It's good. I was wondering if she had any fight in her or if Chicago had beaten it all out.

"And some people," I reply, letting my gaze drift deliberately down her body and back up, "don't know how to use an axe."

Her jaw tightens. "I know how to use an axe."

"Do you, though?" I gesture toward her sad excuse for a woodpile. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're losing a fight with that log."

She glances at the evidence of her failure—scattered wood chips, an overturned planter, dirt everywhere—and I can see her trying to come up with a comeback.

"It's... harder than it looks," she admits finally.

"Most things are." I push off from the fence and walk closer to where she's standing until I'm directly across from her with only the wooden slats between us. "You city folk always think mountain life's gonna be like some Instagram post. All cozy cabin vibes and artisanal coffee."

Her chin lifts at that. "Are you judging me? You don't know anything about me."

"Don't I?"

I let my eyes track over her again. The designer athletic wear, the pristine hiking boots that have never been worn, the manicured nails that sparkle in the sun.

Everything about her screams temporary visitor, just passing through our world for the Instagram story.

"I bet I know more about you than you think. I bet you're renting that cabin to 'find yourself' or 'reconnect with nature' or some other bullshit that sounds good on social media."

She opens her mouth, probably to argue that I'm wrong, but I cut it off with a hard glare.

"Then you'll head back to whatever city life you came from, with a bunch of mountain selfies and stories about how 'transformative' it all was."

The color drains from her face, and I realize I might have hit a little too close to home.

But instead of backing down, she steps closer to the fence. It makes me want to bury my face in her neck and forget every lesson I've been taught me about city women who don't stay.

Don't be an idiot. Pretty packages always come with expiration dates.

"Wow," she says, voice sharp now. "You got all that from watching me fail at wood chopping?

That's quite a talent for a man who spends his mornings putting on a show for the neighbors.

" She gestures at my bare chest with the axe.

"Tell me, do you always greet newcomers half-naked, or am I just special? "

I can't help the grin that spreads across my face. Most people back down when I push. But not Dr. Brooke Shields. No, she pushes right back.

"Special? Sweetheart, I do this every morning. Though usually my audience is a lot less..." I pause, deliberately letting my eyes drift over her curves again, "...attentive."

She rolls her eyes, but I catch the way her breath hitches. "Right. Because you're just that irresistible?"

"Hey, you're the one who's been staring at my abs for the last twenty minutes. I'm just working out here, minding my own business."

"Minding your own—" She breaks off with an incredulous laugh. "You're literally leaning on my fence, critiquing my wood-chopping technique."

"Just sayin'. I've had years of practice."

"At being an asshole, or at making assumptions about strangers?"

I grin and chuckle a deep laugh.

"Both, probably." I extend my hand through a gap in the fence slats. "Look, the name is Strike."

It's been years since anyone called me Sergeant Striker , but the nickname stuck.

Earned it in Afghanistan for taking out targets. One shot, one kill. Strike.

These days I use that same precision to bring people home alive instead of putting them in the ground. Different mission, same skills. It was military first, then mountain rescue.

I deal with the same principles daily… Read the terrain, assess the threat, adapt or die. Rinse and repeat. Whether it's terrorists or hypothermic hikers, the fundamentals don't change.

She stares at my hand for a long moment, and I can see her weighing whether to play nice or tell me to go fuck myself.

To my surprise, she reaches out and shakes my hand.

Her palm is soft but strong. Surgeon's hands . The contact sends heat racing through my bloodstream, and from the way her pupils dilate, she feels it too.

I should let go. Professional courtesy and all that.