Page 8 of Wrecked on the Mountain (Stone River Mountain #2)

"This is..." She takes another sip. "This is hot chocolate. With…" She smacks those incredible lips together in a way that makes my cock fucking twitch. "Is that cinnamon?"

I can feel my ears getting red again. "It's good for morale."

"Jamie Striker," she says, and there's laughter in her voice now. "Are you telling me that the big, tough mountain rescue coordinator carries hot chocolate in his thermos?"

"Shut up," I grumble, starting to walk again. "Mom's recipe provides energy, maintains core temperature, tastes better than coffee when you're drinking it at six in the morning."

"Um, did you just say your mom made this for you?" Brooke stops in her tracks and stares at me. "Sorry. A moment to make fun of that please."

I roll my eyes. "My mom taught me the recipe. I make it myself."

"Sure you do," she says, smirking. "Does she cut the crusts off your sandwiches too?"

"Didn't I tell you to shut up?"

"You are such a secret cinnamon roll," she accuses, eventually catching up and falling into step beside me.

"I am not a…" My face scrunches up at the weird selection for an insult. "Wait. What the hell is a cinnamon roll?"

"Tough and gruff on the outside, warm and sweet on the inside." She takes another sip of chocolate and grins at me. "You're like... Mountain Daddy energy wrapped in a pretend-grumpy package."

Mountain Daddy?

The way she says it—teasing and affectionate and just a little bit suggestive—makes me feel weird things.

Because despite how irritating her city-girl aura is… she's right. I do want to take care of her. I want to make sure she has warm drinks and everything she needs to be safe in my mountains.

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," I say eventually, ignoring the heat in my groin at being called a Mountain Daddy.

We walk in silence for a while, checking trail conditions and radio equipment. She asks intelligent questions about our protocols, makes observations about potential hazards, and generally proves that her medical training translates well to wilderness settings.

She also keeps stealing sips of my hot chocolate, and every time she hands the cup back to me, I'm fully aware that her lips just touched the same place mine will.

"So," she says as we reach the halfway point of our loop. "Tell me about the team. How long have you all been working together?"

"Varies," I say, pausing to check a trail marker. "Some of the guys have been here since my dad ran the operation. Others, like Beau, are newer. Chase has been with us about two years."

"He seems nice," she says casually.

Too casually.

"He's good at his job," I say carefully. "Professional. Reliable."

"But?"

What I want to say is that Chase is a flirt who's probably already planning how to ask her out, and the thought makes me want to break something.

"He's young. Sometimes doesn't think before he acts."

"Young," she repeats thoughtfully. "How young?"

"Twenty-six."

"Ah." She nods like this explains everything. "And how old are you?"

"Thirty-five."

"So… ancient."

I stop walking and turn to look at her. "Are you calling me old?"

"I'm calling you experienced," she says with a grin that's definitely flirtatious. "There's a difference."

The way she says "experienced" makes my mind immediately supply several inappropriate images of just how experienced I could be with her.

"We should head back," I say finally, because standing here thinking about touching her is not helping my self-control.

"Already?" She looks genuinely disappointed. "But this is beautiful. And I was just starting to extract embarrassing stories about your childhood."

"No embarrassing stories."

"Come on, there have to be some. Growing up in a small town, three sisters, parents who clearly adore you..." She starts walking backward down the trail, facing me with that mischievous smile. "I bet you were the kind of kid who rescued baby birds and cried during Disney movies."

"I did not cry during Disney movies."

"Lilo and Stitch?"

I don't answer, which apparently is answer enough.

"I knew it!" she crows, spinning around to walk normally but still grinning over her shoulder at me. "You're such a softie."

"I am not a softie."

"You carry hot chocolate in your thermos and have a vending machine stocked with artisanal beef jerky and eight-dollar fruit leather."

"Those snacks improve team morale. And they're locally sourced. I'm all about supporting the community. Just ask anyone."

"Your team is lucky to have you," she says, and the sudden sincerity catches me off guard. "Seriously. I've worked with a lot of different organizations, and I've never seen anyone put this much thought into taking care of their people."

"Brooke," I start, not sure what I'm going to say, but suddenly she stumbles and slips before my eyes.

I move without thinking, lunging forward to catch her before she can fall. My arms go around her waist, pulling her against my chest, and suddenly we're pressed together from knee to shoulder.

She's warm and soft and smells like that citrusy perfume. Her hands are gripping my jacket, and she's looking up at me with eyes that are wide and startled and entirely too close to my mouth.

"You okay?" I ask.

"Yeah," she whispers, not taking a step back. "Thanks for catching me."

I reach up and brush a strand of hair away from her face, my thumb lingering against the soft skin of her cheek. Then I feel her hands through my jacket, and they're like ice cubes pressed against my chest.

"Christ," I mutter. "How cold are your hands?"

"Pretty cold," she admits, and I notice that her lips are starting to look blue around the edges.

Idiot. She's been out here for an hour without gloves, and you're standing around having a moment instead of getting her warmed up.

I step back, immediately missing her warmth but focused now on practical concerns.

"We need to get you back to the truck," I say, shrugging off my pack to pull out emergency hand warmers. "Here."

I tear open two packets and place them in her palms, then cover her hands with mine to help trap the heat.

"Better?"

"Much," she says, looking down at our joined hands with an expression I can't quite read. "Thank you."

"Next time, bring gloves," I say gruffly. "And a proper jacket. And your own damn thermos. All of which you can find in the gear room that we went to before we left."

"Yes, sir," she says with a little smile that makes it clear she's not taking my grumpiness seriously.

Sir. I'll give her fucking sir .

***

After a long day, I'm still pacing around my cabin like a caged animal, unable to stop thinking about the way Brooke felt in my arms this afternoon. The way she looked up at me like she wanted me to kiss her.

Now I find myself standing in my kitchen, staring at the brown paper bag I've been filling and refilling for the last hour.

"This is stupid," I groan to myself, dragging a hand down my face. "She's a grown woman. She can buy her own gear."

But I keep thinking about her blue lips and frozen hands, about the way she mentioned liking purple when she was talking about her dad's favorite flowers.

And before I can talk myself out of it, I'm adding things to the bag.

A new thermal mug—purple, because it's obviously her favorite color. I also toss in thick, insulated gloves that we keep at the station, but now, she'll have a pair of her own.

Lastly, I fold up a trail map I drew myself, marking the route to my favorite sunrise spot on Cascade Ridge. It's the place I go when I need to think. It's my spot, my refuge, my escape.

And I've never shown it to anyone.

But I want her to have it.

Finally, I stuff a paper bag of the cinnamon cookies my mom made this morning, remembering how Brooke's voice cracked when she mentioned her dad's final days. How she'd spent two years watching him fade away.

No wonder she pushes herself so hard.

Maybe that's why I'm doing this. Because beneath all that city polish and medical brilliance is someone who's been carrying grief like a backpack full of stones since she was nine years old.

And this map that leads to my sunrise spot will help her. The place isn't just beautiful; it's peaceful. Healing. The kind of place where you can breathe without your chest aching.

And dammit, Brooke Shields, city-girl or not… temporary or not…

She's one woman who needs to breathe.