Page 6 of Wrecked on the Mountain (Stone River Mountain #2)

"I'm sure she's a fast learner," Martha says, reaching out for my coffee cup and taking it.

"We'll find out." Jamie's eyes never leave mine. "Come on, Doc. Let me show you around."

He turns and starts walking deeper into the building, clearly expecting me to follow. I do, like some kind of hormone-addled puppy, trying to focus as he leads me deeper into what can only be described as mountain rescue paradise.

I try to focus on his professional briefing, but it's a losing battle.

Especially when he keeps doing this thing where he leans close to explain equipment, and I catch hints of his aftershave. Seriously, it's so addictive it makes me want to bury my face in his neck.

"We monitor weather, missing persons alerts, forest conditions," he continues, gesturing to multiple screens that look like something out of a NASA control room.

"Response time is critical up here, so we stay connected to everything at all times.

The team rotates on a roster and you will be expected to do the same. "

"Night shifts. Check." I nod and ignore the pounding in my chest, focusing on the tour instead.

The setup is incredibly impressive.

Professional-grade equipment, backup systems, even what appears to be satellite communication capability.

"This is... wow," I say, genuinely amazed. "This isn't what I expected from a small-town operation."

"What did you expect?" There's an edge to his voice, like my surprise might be an insult.

"Honestly? Some old radios and hope," I admit, which makes him laugh a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through my chest.

"We take mountain rescue seriously around here," he says, moving toward the next area. "People's lives depend on us getting it right."

The building keeps surprising me as we move around the tangled maze of rooms, walkways and storage facilities.

We pass a lounge area with leather furniture that looks like it belongs in an expensive ski lodge, complete with a stone fireplace and a full bar.

"Do you live here?" I ask, only half-joking.

"Sometimes feels like it," he admits. "But no, we just believe in taking care of the team. Happy team members make better rescuers."

Happy team members. Right. Because apparently this place operates on the revolutionary principle that treating people well gets better results.

My dad would have loved this philosophy.

"The gear room," Jamie announces, opening a door that reveals what can only be described as outdoor equipment porn.

Everything is organized with military-styled precision, but also... beautiful? The ropes are color-coded and hung on custom wooden pegs. The backpacks are arranged by size and function. There are heated boot racks, a gear-washing station, and is that a fucking vending machine in the corner?

"You have a vending machine in your gear room," I say, because apparently my brain has latched onto this as the most important detail.

"Long operations," Jamie shrugs, but I catch the hint of embarrassment. "Fuel and sustenance is critical for performance."

There's a wooden bowl on one of the counters filled with expensive chocolates. Not cheap candy—actual artisanal chocolates wrapped in gold foil.

"Are those..." I start.

"Martha's weakness," he explains quickly. "She orders them from some fancy place in Seattle. Says sugar improves morale."

Jamie tosses a gold-wrapped chocolate my way. I snatch it from the air on reflex, surprising myself with the quick movement. His bright blue eyes light up, impressed.

"Good hands, Doc. You'll need those here."

"This is the most luxurious mountain rescue station in existence," I say, unwrapping the chocolate and popping it in my mouth.

Oh my God. It's salted caramel with a hint of bourbon, and it literally melts on my tongue like edible silk.

"We work hard around here," Jamie says, watching me react to the chocolate with an intensity that makes my nipples tighten. "So we deserve nice things."

The way he's looking at me… like he's imagining exactly how that chocolate tastes in my mouth… makes heat pool low in my belly.

"Speaking of nice things," he adds with that dangerous grin. "The town's having its annual winter festival next weekend. The whole team participates, and as your boss, I've got something special planned for this year."

The way he says "boss" drips with suggestion, like he's tasting the word and finding it deliciously satisfying.

My pulse quickens as I wonder if the idea of him being bossy is turning him on as much as it's affecting me.

Because God help me, the thought of Jamie telling me exactly what to do is making my skin feel two sizes too small.

"Something special?" I ask curiously.

"Hope you're not afraid of a little cold water, Doc." His eyes glitter with mischief. "That's all I'm saying."

But this professional, almost charming man seems at odds with the arrogant neighbor who mocked my wood-chopping yesterday.

Is this the real Jamie, or just his workplace persona?

I've seen plenty of doctors transform when they put on their white coats. All compassion for patients, then pure venom in the break room.

Which version of Jamie Striker is authentic?

"So what's my role here?" I ask, trying to redirect this conversation before I do something phenomenally stupid like lick chocolate off my lips while staring at his mouth.

"Medical coordination," he says, still watching my mouth. "You'll join the guys for emergency response and trauma stabilization, as well as all the team training. Your job is to make sure everyone stays alive and functional."

The familiar weight of responsibility settles on my shoulders, but it feels different here. Lighter, somehow.

Maybe because this isn't about impossible surgical outcomes in a trauma bay where failure means devastating someone's family again.

It's not about those endless nights when I'd scrub my hands raw after losing patients, as if I could somehow wash away the guilt along with their blood.

When Jamie talks about keeping people "alive and functional," it doesn't carry the crushing weight of my Chicago mantra: I will never let another little girl watch her daddy die.

"I can handle that," I say with more confidence than I've felt in months.

"Can you?" He steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "Because field medicine isn't like your sterile Operating Room, sweetheart. It's messy. Physical. Sometimes you're treating hypothermia while hanging from a rope in a blizzard."

There's that challenge again, but this time there's something else underneath it. Heat. Interest. Like he's testing me but also hoping I'll pass.

"Are you questioning my qualifications again?" I ask, letting some sass creep into my voice as I pop a hand on my hip.

"I'm questioning whether you can handle getting your hands dirty." His gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes. "Whether you can work as part of a team instead of running the show."

"I think I can manage to play nice with others," I reply, stepping closer until we're almost touching.

"We'll see." His voice has dropped to that dangerous whisper that makes me want to do things that would definitely violate workplace harassment policies.

"I've told you once, and I won't say it again now.

The mountains don't care about your medical degree, Dr. Shields.

They don't care how smart you are or how many lives you've saved in Chicago. "

"What do they care about?" I challenge.

"Heart," he says simply. "Whether you give a damn about the people you're trying to save. Whether you'll fight for them even when everything goes wrong."

Something in his voice makes my chest tight. There's pain there, old wounds that he's covering with professional authority.

"I give a damn," I say quietly, thinking about the nine-year-old girl who swore she'd never let another child feel the same pain I did the day I watched my father die. "Maybe too much. That's why I'm here."

For a moment, something shifts in his expression. The challenging mask slips, and I catch a glimpse of something vulnerable underneath.

Then he steps back, and the moment's gone.

"Good," he says briskly. "Because in about an hour, you're going to meet the rest of the team, and they're going to put you through your paces. These guys don't trust easy, and they sure as hell don't cut slack for temporary personnel."

Temporary.

Right. I'm temporary. Three months and then back to Chicago, back to my real life.

Except standing here in this incredible place, surrounded by evidence of a team that actually cares about each other, with a man who makes my pulse race just by breathing...

Chicago feels very far away.

And for the first time since I left the hospital, that doesn't terrify me.