Page 5 of Wrecked on the Mountain (Stone River Mountain #2)

Chapter Three

Brooke

I'm going to die of humiliation.

No, scratch that. First I'm going to die of sexual frustration, then humiliation, because apparently my body has decided that standing outside the Mountain Rescue headquarters is the perfect time to replay yesterday's shirtless wood-chopping show in high definition.

Those abs. Sweet Jesus, those abs.

I shake my head and check my phone: 7:58 AM. Two minutes early, which in hospital time means I'm practically late.

But this isn't a trauma bay where seconds mean life or death. This is... whatever mountain rescue orientation looks like.

So it's perfect timing in my new life.

Now if I can just walk through these doors without spontaneously combusting from the memory of my neighbor's—

Don't think about his chest, Brooke. Don't think about how the sweat traced down his—

"Professional," I mutter, adjusting my blazer. "You are a professional trauma surgeon, not a horny teenager."

The building itself is gorgeous, all rustic timber and native stone with windows that perfectly reflect the mountain vista behind me. It screams "wilderness operation" meets "luxury lodge," which honestly?

Not what I expected from a small-town rescue service.

I push through the front door and immediately smell coffee, bacon, and something that makes my mouth water.

Is that fresh bread? In a rescue station?

The entry area is like stepping into a high-end mountain retreat. Polished hardwood floors, framed action shots of dramatic rescues, and a reception desk made from what looks like a single piece of reclaimed wood.

Behind it sits a woman with silver-streaked hair and the kind of genuine smile that makes you want to confess your life story.

"You must be Dr. Shields," she says, standing up from behind a computer that looks like it survived Y2K. "I'm Martha, the administrative coordinator. Welcome to Stone River Mountain Rescue."

"Thank you," I say, grateful that someone here seems normal and professional. I've worked with some whackjobs in my life, so this is off to a good start. "I'm excited to be here."

Excited might be overselling it, but at least I'm not running screaming back to Chicago. Yet.

"Coffee?" Martha gestures toward a professional-grade espresso setup that probably belongs in a boutique café, not a mountain rescue station. "Fair warning, the boys like it strong enough to wake the dead."

"Please." I need all the caffeine I can get.

She hands me a mug that says " Number One Rescuer " and I take a sip that immediately makes my eyes widen. This isn't coffee. It's rich, smooth, with hints of chocolate and caramel that definitely didn't come from a standard office pot.

It's delicious.

"Jamie should be here any minute," Martha says, settling back behind her desk. "He likes to do orientation himself instead of pawning it off on the assistant coordinators."

Jamie. The coordinator's name is Jamie.

I've got images of someone older, gruff and battle-hardened. Maybe a retired forest service guy with a white beard and suspicious attitude toward outsiders.

"Is he... nice?" I ask, then immediately regret the question.

Nice isn't exactly the standard of professional inquiry I managed in my medical thesis.

Martha's smile turns distinctly amused. "Oh, Jamie's... well, you'll see. He's fair. Protective of his team and this community. But he doesn't suffer fools gladly, if you know what I mean."

Doesn't suffer fools gladly. Great. More pressure to prove I belong here.

I sip my coffee and take a look around. My dad would have loved this place.

He always said the best medicine happened in communities, not institutions.

I can almost see him leaning against that leather couch, nodding approvingly at the maps and rescue gear.

He would have gotten such a kick out of this whole operation, no doubt making friends with everyone within the first hour.

You're doing good work, little doctor.

I can almost hear his voice, and for the first time in months, it doesn't make me want to cry.

"Jamie should be here any minute," Martha says, hanging up the phone. She looks at me and smiles. "Stop stressing, Doctor. You'll be fine. He's probably just running late because Tommy Stewart spray-painted something inappropriate on the water tower again."

I'm about to ask who Tommy Stewart is when voices drift from what must be the kitchen area. Deep, male laughter and the sound of chairs scraping against floors.

"Breakfast crew's finishing up," Martha explains. "The boys start early around here."

The boys. Right.

I try to look casual as I peek around the corner toward the kitchen, and holy mother of all that is good and pure in this world.

It's like someone took my deepest, most secret fantasies about rugged mountain men and made them real.

Three—no, four—absolutely gorgeous men are seated around a massive wooden table that looks hand-crafted. They're all various shades of scruffy and muscled, wearing tightly fitted thermals and cargo pants, looking like they just finished the world's sexiest workout.

And the food. Jesus Christ, the food.

A complete spread of fresh biscuits with honey butter, thick-cut bacon that's perfectly crispy, eggs that look farm-fresh. There are even hash browns that are golden brown perfection.

"Who's the cook?" I whisper to Martha, because this spread belongs in a five-star resort, not a rescue station.

"They all take turns," she says, clearly enjoying my shock. "Competition gets pretty fierce. Jamie insists on proper nutrition for the team so all the men here are very talented when it comes to the kitchen."

One of the men—broad shoulders, dark beard, forearms that could probably bench press a truck—glances up and catches me staring. He grins and raises his coffee mug in a little salute.

I quickly duck back behind the reception desk, face burning.

"Don't mind them," Martha laughs. "They're harmless. Mostly."

That's when the front door opens behind me with a rush of cold mountain air and heavy footsteps that make my pulse immediately spike.

"Sorry I'm late, Martha," a deep, familiar voice says, and every cell in my body recognizes that gravelly tone. "Had to chase Tommy's ass down Main Street after he decided the hardware store needed some creative signage."

Oh no.

No no no no no.

I know that voice.

That's the voice that made me forget how to breathe yesterday morning while I stood there gripping an axe like my life depended on it.

I turn around slowly, already knowing what I'm going to see but desperately hoping I'm wrong.

I'm not wrong.

Strike is standing in the doorway, and sweet merciful fuck, he looks even better than yesterday.

Dark cargo pants that hug powerful thighs. A fitted forest-green shirt that clings to every muscle I spent hours fantasizing about last night. His thick brown hair is perfectly tousled, like he just ran his fingers through it.

And there are those eyes again.

Those devastating blue eyes that are currently dancing with amusement.

"Dr. Brooke Shields," he says, and there's so much satisfied smugness in his voice that I want to either slap him or climb him like a tree. "Welcome to Mountain Rescue."

Yep. There it is.

My eyes drop to see he's also wearing a badge that clearly identifies him as Mountain Rescue Coordinator.

Oh. Fuck. My. Life.

My mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for air. I can feel heat creeping up my neck, across my cheeks, probably turning my entire face the color of a ripe tomato.

He's my boss.

My shirtless, wood-chopping, arrogant neighbor who caught me eye-fucking him through a fence is my boss.

My boss!

The man I've been having extremely inappropriate thoughts about is the person I'll be reporting to for the next three months.

"You..." I start, then stop, because apparently my brain has decided to take an unscheduled vacation.

"Me," he confirms, stepping closer with that predatory smile that makes heat pool between my thighs. "Jamie Striker, Mountain Rescue Coordinator. Around here, they just call me Strike. "

He extends his hand like we're meeting for the first time, even though we both know exactly how ridiculous this is.

"N-nice to meet you," I manage, proud that my voice only shakes a little.

He takes my hand, and just like yesterday, the contact sends electricity shooting straight to my core. But instead of a quick professional handshake, he holds on, thumb brushing across my knuckles in a way that's completely inappropriate and absolutely deliberate.

"The pleasure," he says, voice pitched low enough that Martha can't hear, "is all mine, sweetheart. You look surprised, Doc. Didn’t peg me as the buttoned-up type?"

Sweetheart. He called me sweetheart in that gravelly voice, and my body responds like he just whispered dirty promises in my ear.

This is so bad.

This is so, so bad.

My mind races with forbidden images that I totally should not be having right now.

His powerful hands pinning my wrists above my head, those intense blue eyes holding me captive as he claims my mouth. I imagine his weight pressing me down, those tattooed arms flexing as he takes what he wants.

I've never been this instantly, desperately attracted to anyone.

I can't help it.

I want him to back me against the wall, lift me onto his desk, bend me over and lay claim on every inch of my skin.

But this isn't me. I don't fantasize about being dominated, about surrendering control. I'm Dr. Brooke Shields. I give orders, not take them.

But something about Jamie makes me want to yield, to let someone else be in charge.

And that's good, I guess… because he's my fucking boss !

Martha clears her throat pointedly. "Should I leave you two to get... acquainted?"

Jamie's hand is still holding mine, thumb still doing that maddening thing across my knuckles that's making it hard to think straight.

"Yes," he says, finally releasing my hand but not stepping back. "We should get started. Dr. Shields has a lot to learn about our operation."