Page 7 of Wrecked on the Mountain (Stone River Mountain #2)

Chapter Four

Jamie

I need to stop thinking about her ass.

Specifically, I need to stop thinking about how it looked in those yoga pants when she was bent over trying to murder that piece of firewood.

Or the way she bit her lip when I caught her staring at me through that fence. Or how her fitted blazer hugged her curves during orientation.

"Jamie Michael Striker, are you even listening to me?"

My mom's voice cuts through my internal spiral, and I look up to find her wielding a wooden spoon like a weapon. The kitchen island is covered with muffins, which means Mom's been stress-baking since dawn.

"Sorry, what?" I grunt, taking another bite of what is the best cinnamon muffin in existence.

"I said," she continues, giving me that look that still makes me feel like I'm twelve. "…you should invite your lovely new neighbor over for Sunday dinner. She sounds like she could use some proper mothering."

My youngest sister Zoe snorts from where she's scrolling through her phone at the kitchen table at my parents house. "Subtle, Mom. Real subtle."

"What's subtle about it?" Mom demands, hands on her hips. "The poor girl is all alone in that cabin, probably eating takeout from Timber Tavern and drinking less than ideal instant coffee. It's practically criminal."

"She's not alone," I say, then immediately regret it when all three women in my family turn to stare at me. "I mean, she's... she's fine. She's handling herself fine."

Chloe, my middle sister and the owner of the town's bakery, looks up from where she's been stealing muffin tops. "Oh, she's handling herself fine , is she? Is that why you've been avoiding your own cabin for three days?"

"I haven't been avoiding anything," I lie. "I've been working."

I take a gulp of the hot chocolate Mom insisted on making despite the fact that I'm a grown-ass man. I didn't argue because, well… I like hot cocoa. Come at me.

"You've been sleeping in the rescue station break room," Zoe points out without looking up from her phone. "Martha told Linda, Linda told Betty, Betty told Mom. The gossip chain in this town is faster than your radio system."

I sigh and shake my head.

The truth is, I have been avoiding my cabin.

Ever since orientation, I can't look out my kitchen window without remembering the way Brooke looked at me on her first day. The way her breath caught when I called her sweetheart.

The woman is dangerous for my well-trained sexual restraint.

I've been jacking off to the memory of her bent over that chopping block so much I'm starting to worry about chafing.

"Maybe," Mom continues, "I should just walk over there with a casserole. And some of those cranberry bars—"

"Mom, no." I set down my mug on the table with a hard clunk. "She's my employee. She doesn't need you adopting her."

"Employee," Chloe repeats with air quotes. "Right. Is that why your ears turn red every time someone mentions her name?"

I reach up instinctively to check my ears, then catch myself and scowl. "My ears don't turn red."

"They're literally red right now," Zoe says, finally looking up from her phone to grin at me. "Like, tomato red. It's actually impressive."

This is why I moved out the second I turned eighteen.

Three sisters and a mother picking apart every reaction, every glance, every unconscious gesture until a man can't even have a private thought in his own head.

I don't know how Dad does it. Maybe that's why he's never around when they're picking me apart. Smart man.

"Screw you guys," I say, standing up and grabbing my jacket. "I'm going to work. Where I can have conversations that don't involve analyzing my ear color."

"Just be careful, sweetheart," Mom says with unexpected gentleness. "I know you don't let people in easy. But sometimes the best things happen when we stop fighting what we want."

I grunt and wave her off.

Of course, Mom knows about Rebecca. About how that disaster ended with me swearing off city women and their inevitable departure dates.

But Brooke isn't Rebecca.

Stop it. Brooke is exactly like Rebecca. Temporary. Here for a few months before she goes back to her real life.

I steal another muffin on the way out the door. "I'll see you Sunday, Mom."

I load into my truck and soon I'm pulling into the Mountain Rescue parking lot. The second I kill the engine, all my good intentions go straight to hell.

Because Brooke is standing outside the main building, laughing at something Chase Morrison is saying.

And Chase—that charming, twenty-six-year-old golden retriever of a man—is standing way too close to her, grinning like he just won the lottery.

The spike of jealousy that shoots through me is immediate and completely irrational.

I slam the truck door and stride toward them, probably looking like a possessive asshole but unable to stop myself.

"Morrison," I bark, causing both of them to turn. "Don't you have equipment checks to finish?"

Chase's grin widens, like he knows exactly what he's doing. "Just finished, boss. Was telling Dr. Shields here about the best coffee spots in town."

"Coffee spots," I repeat flatly.

"You know, places with actual baristas and good ol' fashioned conversation," Chase continues, clearly enjoying himself. "I was thinking of showing her Bear Paw Café this afternoon—"

I ignore the asshole and look straight to Brooke. "Not happening. You're with me today. Let's go."

Chase raises an eyebrow. "I thought Beau was doing patrol—"

"Change of plans." I don't take my eyes off Brooke, who's looking between us with confusion. "Dr. Shields needs field experience."

"Sure thing, boss," Chase says with laughter in his voice. "Dr. Shields, maybe we can continue our conversation about... coffee... later?"

The way he says "coffee" makes it sound like he's talking about something entirely different, and my jaw clenches.

"That sounds nice," Brooke says politely, but her big beautiful eyes are on me, like she's trying to figure out what the hell just happened just as much as I am.

Chase heads inside, whistling something that sounds suspiciously like "Matchmaker, Matchmaker," and I resist the urge to throw something at his head.

"So," Brooke says once we're alone. "Patrol duty?"

"Trail conditions need checking after yesterday's snow," I say gruffly, starting toward the equipment shed. "Might as well see how you handle yourself in the field."

We gather some gear and head back to the truck. I hold the passenger door open for Brooke, my eyes automatically dropping to her perfectly curved ass as she climbs into the cab.

I snap my gaze away, focusing on a tree in the distance, the mountains, literally anything else. But the image is already burned into my brain.

Great. More chafing incoming.

I clear my throat and slam the door harder than necessary.

Soon, we're driving up Forest Service Road 247 in the rescue truck. It's a massive Ford F-350 that could probably survive an apocalypse. The cab is warm and comfortable, with heated seats and enough technology to coordinate a military operation if it needed to.

Brooke is staring out the window at the snow-covered landscape, her sultry mouth slightly open, eyes glistening as she stares in awe like she's never seen anything so beautiful.

"This is so stunning," she says with a smile. "I mean, I knew the mountains were pretty, but this is..."

"Different from your big city life?" I ask, glancing over at her.

"Different from everything." She turns to look at me. "How long have you lived here?"

"My whole life," I say, turning onto a narrower road that opens up a view of the town below. "Born at the hospital just down there, grew up in the house where my parents still live. Never really wanted to be anywhere else."

It's more than I usually share with newcomers, but there's something about the way she's listening that makes me want to keep talking.

"That must be nice," she says. "Having those kind of... roots. Knowing exactly where you belong."

"You don't have that in Chicago?"

She's quiet for a moment, watching the pine trees flash past. "I did, once. When I was a kid. But after my dad died..."

She pauses and I feel like an asshole for prying.

"You don't have to—"

"No, it's okay." She gives me a small smile. "He died when I was nine. Cancer. And after that, everything felt... temporary. Like I was just moving through places instead of actually living in them."

Nine years old.

This woman was nine when she lost a parent to cancer.

Christ. No wonder she became a doctor.

"I'm sorry," I say, and I mean it. "That's way too young to lose a parent."

"He would have loved this place," she continues, her voice getting stronger.

"Sounds like a smart man."

We keep talking about her life in Chicago, about her family and her favorite things, and once we've reached the trailhead, I park next to the information board.

The snow here is pristine, unmarked except for wildlife tracks, and the silence feels almost sacred.

"Wow," Brooke breathes, stepping out and turning in a slow circle to look around us. "This is..."

"Home," I finish, grabbing my pack and radio from the back seat. "Grab your gear, let's go."

We start walking toward the main trail, our boots disappearing in fresh snow. The cold air makes our breath visible, and I notice Brooke shoving her hands deeper into her jacket pockets.

"You cold?" I ask.

"A little." She shrugs like it's no big deal, but her cheeks are already pink.

"Didn't you grab gloves?"

"I... may have forgotten them."

Of course she did. City girl, trying to tough it out instead of admitting she's not prepared.

I stop walking and pull my thermos from my pack, unscrewing the cap and pouring hot liquid into the built-in cup.

"Here," I say, holding it out to her.

She takes it gratefully, wrapping her hands around the warm metal and taking a sip. I can't help but watch her full lips press against the rim of the cup, the way her throat moves as she swallows.

Then she stops, staring at the cup with complete bewilderment.

"This isn't coffee."

"No."