Page 47 of Wrecked on the Mountain (Stone River Mountain #2)

Piper

I wake up and my first coherent thought is: What the hell did I do last night?

The second thought, as I take in the exposed brick walls and vintage rescue equipment scattered around like expensive art pieces, is: Oh God, I climbed a fire escape.

The third thought, as my eyes land on the absolutely ridiculous specimen of male perfection sprawled naked beside me, is: Fuck. I am in so much trouble.

Chase Morrison's apartment is everything my sterile Chicago penthouse isn't.

Where I have minimalist white furniture and carefully curated art my father gifted me for my birthday, he has a leather couch that's actually been lived on and bookshelves crammed with dog-eared novels and rescue manuals.

There is also what appears to be actual climbing gear hanging from hooks like it's been used recently. It's not decorative, not a 'feature of masculinity' put there to give the impression of strength and power.

It's authentic and real.

The man in question is lying on his stomach beside me, one arm flung over the pillow, the white sheet riding dangerously low on his hips.

The morning sunlight filling the apartment highlights every ridge of muscle across his shoulders and down his back, and I can see the edge of a tattoo peeking out from where the sheet barely covers his ass.

Focus, Piper. Gather your dignity along with your dress and get out.

I'm wearing his flannel shirt, which hits me mid-thigh and smells like the forest. My head is pounding from what I'm pretty sure was an entire bottle of wine, and my designer dress is somewhere on the floor, probably wrinkled beyond salvation.

My mother is going to kill me. She paid a fortune for that dress and hasn't shut up about it ever since she and Dad got back from Paris a month ago.

I seriously need to find my underwear and leave before he wakes up.

Perhaps I should consider changing my flight. Make damn sure I'm entirely out of the way before he even notices I'm gone.

But the hardwood floors of the apartment are ancient and character-filled, which is a polite way of saying they creak like a haunted house with every step.

I creep and tiptoe toward where I think I saw my thong last night, stepping carefully around empty beer bottles and a half-finished crossword puzzle on a small coffee table.

At twenty-nine years old, I'm finally doing the walk of shame. My first walk of shame.

The worst part? I don't actually want to leave.

His apartment tells a story that my penthouse never could. There's a rescue helmet on the coffee table next to a mug that's still half full. Like he got home after being a hero and was so tired he couldn't finish his drink.

There are even hiking boots by the door that are actually muddy. And a guitar in the corner that looks played, not displayed at the right angle for 'aesthetics'.

"Well, well. If it isn't my midnight fire escape climber."

I freeze, my hand halfway to my underwear, which is apparently hanging from a lamp shade like some kind of lingerie art installation.

Chase's deep voice is rough with sleep, and when I turn around, he's propped up on one elbow, grinning at me with devastating charm.

Sweet Jesus.

If I thought Chase Morrison was attractive yesterday, seeing him rumpled and naked in morning light is like staring directly into the sun… painful, but in the best possible way.

His sandy brown hair is completely disheveled, sticking up in directions that suggest my fingers spent considerable time last night running through it.

Those hazel eyes with their green edges are studying me with lazy intensity, like he's got all the time in the world to memorize every inch of me still wearing his shirt.

He's ruggedly beautiful in a way that makes my perfectly manicured life feel utterly ridiculous.

His chest is a masterpiece of lean muscle, built from actual work rather than expensive personal trainers. The sheet has shifted even lower, and I can see the cut of his hip bones, the trail of hair that leads down to—

Stop staring at his penis, Piper.

"I was not climbing anything," I say defensively, snatching my thong and clutching it behind my back. "I was... carefully navigating my way up here. Which I now realize was a terrible decision."

His laugh is warm and genuine, the kind that makes my chest flutter in ways that have nothing to do with my hangover.

"Sweetheart, you practically scaled that fire escape like Spider-Man in heels. Pretty sure you broke some kind of record."

The memory comes flooding back—me, three sheets to the wind, standing outside this building after our disastrous meeting at Timber Tavern, looking up at his apartment window and thinking, I can totally climb that.

"Oh God," I groan, covering my face with my free hand. "I actually climbed a fire escape. In a dress. And heels."

"Best part of my night," he says, sitting up fully now, completely unbothered by his nudity. "Well, second best part."

The way he's looking at me makes my pulse race and my carefully constructed defenses crumble. It's almost like I'm something fascinating instead of a hot mess in borrowed clothes.

This is exactly the kind of man my parents would have an aneurysm over.

Working class, unpolished, the type who gets excited about rescue equipment and probably thinks thread count is a math problem.

He's also seems like the most genuine person I've met in years.

"Coffee?" he asks, like I didn't just get caught trying to sneak out of his apartment.

"Um, sure?"

Chase slips out of bed and pads to the kitchen area completely naked, and I mean completely naked, like he's auditioning for a Scandinavian wellness commercial.

Meanwhile, I'm trying to wrestle myself back into my designer dress while maintaining some semblance of dignity.

"Would you please put some clothes on?" I hiss, yanking my dress over my head and immediately regretting the violent head movement.

"You weren't complaining last night," he calls over his shoulder, opening cabinets and reaching for coffee grounds. "Pretty sure you told me if I was a real helicopter rescuer, I should demonstrate my... what was it? Oh yeah, my 'rotor skills.'"

Oh God. I actually said that. Out loud. While wine-drunk and apparently channeling someone with an actual personality.

"I did not say that."

His smile grows bigger. "You did. Should I show you again?"

"I did not say rotor skills! And no, you should not!"

He ignores me and proceeds to helicopter his hips in a way that makes me simultaneously want to die of embarrassment and also maybe climb him like that fire escape again.

"CHASE! Stop helicoptering your... your..." I gesture frantically at his general nakedness.

"My what?" He grins, completely unashamed, still moving in that ridiculous circular motion that makes his… thing… swirl round and round.

"Your EQUIPMENT!"

He laughs so hard he nearly drops the coffee pot. "Equipment? Sweetheart, last night you called it—"

"I was drunk!" I shriek, my face burning. "I don't remember what drunk Piper said, but sober Piper is having a complete breakdown! STOP SWINGING YOUR DICK LIKE THAT!"

His laughter fills the apartment, but finally stops the helicopter demonstration and focuses on making coffee. "I don't know why you're getting all up tight about my junk. You've seen everything there is to see. Multiple times, if memory serves."

The coffee maker gurgles to life, and the smell of liquid tar fills the air. This man makes coffee like he's preparing for a nuclear winter.

"I'm up tight because this isn't me," I say, finally managing to zip my dress. "I don't do this kind of thing. I don't climb fire escapes or sleep with men I've known for twelve hours or—" I gesture wildly at his still-naked form, "—have awkward breakfast conversations with naked mountain men."

"Mountain man?" He grins, pouring coffee into two mismatched mugs. "Last night you called me a 'delicious specimen of American masculinity.'"

"I was drunk!"

"And drunk people are usually honest."

He hands me a mug, and I take a tentative sip. Yep. It's strong enough to wake the dead. And it tastes like it was brewed over a campfire.

But somehow, it's perfect.

"You want to know what I remember about last night?

" Chase leans against the counter, still gloriously naked, apparently immune to the concept of shame.

"You standing outside Timber Tavern, watching Brooke and Jamie through the window, and saying you were tired of being the third wheel.

The friend who plays it safe and always does as her parents tell her. "

My head throbs at the blurry memory. Brooke, glowing with happiness, wrapped in Jamie's arms while he spun her around the dance floor. Me, standing outside in my perfectly coordinated outfit, completely out of place and feeling like I was watching life through glass.

"I said I wanted to test the waters of spontaneity," I mutter into my coffee. "That's it."

"You said you'd spent twenty-nine years making safe choices, and you wanted to make one terrible decision just to see what it felt like."

"And then you appeared."

"Like a terrible decision with great abs?"

My eyes drift down to his abs, which are admittedly spectacular. All those rope climbs and mountain rescues have carved him into something that now belongs in my permanent city-girl wank-bank.

But apparently my traitorous gaze doesn't want to stop there, because it keeps traveling south to his impressively big... rotor blade.

Which is currently at half-mast. And twitching with interest.

"Eyes up here, sweetheart."

My face flames as I snap my attention back to his eyes. "Oh. Shut up. I wasn't even looking!"

"You were definitely looking. And now you're blushing like a tomato, which is adorable."

"I don't blush! I'm sophisticated!"

"Sophisticated people don't climb fire escapes in high heels."

"That was a momentary lapse in judgment!"