Page 9 of Wrecked on the Mountain (Stone River Mountain #2)

Chapter Five

Brooke

I stumble back to the cabin, my lungs burning from pushing myself too hard on my post-work run. Three miles at this elevation is not the same as three miles in Chicago.

My ponytail's come half-undone, sweat dripping down my neck and still, it's not enough to cool me down after having those enormous, strong hands on me this afternoon.

"Water," I gasp, fumbling with my keys. "Need water before I—"

That's when I see it.

A brown paper bag sitting on my porch, propped against the door like a silent mysterious mountain messenger.

I freeze, staring at it like it might be a mirage. People don't leave things on porches in Chicago unless they're packages that have been delivered.

My lungs are burning, my legs feel like jelly, and I'm pretty sure I just got lapped by a seventy-year-old woman walking her dog.

But there's definitely a bag on my porch. It's not a mirage at all.

I pick it up cautiously, feeling its substantial weight as I unlock the door and stumble inside.

Kicking off my joggers, I set the bag on my kitchen counter and stare at it while I pour myself a glass of water. Then I make chamomile tea, because apparently I need to calm the fuck down before I can handle whatever's inside.

The last time someone left me a surprise, it was Dr. Richardson placing a bouquet of white lilies on my desk the day after Tyler Matthews died.

He gave me a damn sympathy card like I'd lost a family member instead of a patient. Like grief was something that could be fixed with flowers and platitudes.

I'd thrown them in the trash without reading the rest of the card.

But this... this feels different.

I take a sip of tea, steel myself, and open the bag.

Oh my God.

The first thing I pull out is a package of homemade cookies, wrapped in wax paper with a piece of masking tape that says "Mom's Recipe" in handwriting that definitely belongs to a man who learned cursive in elementary school and never quite perfected it.

They smell like lemon and butter and everything good in the world.

I lift one to my nose, inhaling the lemony scent that immediately transports me back to Sunday mornings with Dad, his pancakes sizzling on the griddle while Mom read the newspaper. The memory is so vivid it makes my chest ache.

Then, the second item makes me actually laugh out loud.

It's a fucking thermal mug. Not just any thermal mug—this is the kind of high-end, double-walled, keep-your-coffee-hot-for-eight-hours situation.

And it's purple.

My favorite color, which I may have mentioned exactly once during our patrol today when I was talking about my dad's garden.

He remembered.

Next, a pair of insulated gloves that look like they could withstand an Arctic expedition.

"Message received, Strike," I mutter, remembering his lecture about proper gear on the way back down the mountain.

But it's the fourth item that makes me sit down heavily on my kitchen stool.

A hand-drawn map.

Not a printed trail guide or some generic tourist thing. This is clearly personal. Drawn on quality paper in confident lines. The kind of attention to detail that suggests the artist knows every rock, every tree, every turn.

I trace the contour lines with my fingertip, noticing the perfect elevation markings and detailed terrain notes. This isn't just a trail map—it's a full blown land assessment.

The way he's marked potential hazards, alternate routes, and optimal viewing positions screams military.

"Special Forces," I whisper, remembering his casual mention of Afghanistan today.

Jamie Striker isn't just some mountain man. He's elite military. The kind who probably mapped enemy territory from memory.

Cascade Ridge Sunrise Trail is written across the top in that same careful handwriting.

There are little notes scattered across the drawing: "Best view 6:30 AM." "Watch for ice here." "Wildflowers in spring."

And at the bottom, in smaller text that looks fresher, less faded, like it was written hours ago: "My favorite spot. Thought you might like it too."

My favorite spot.

I stare at the map until my tea gets cold.

Who does this? Who takes the time to hand-draw a map to their secret sunrise spot and leave it on someone's doorstep with homemade cookies and expensive mountain gear?

Is this a mountain man mating ritual? Because if so, it's working.

I know I should get a grip.

But I can't stop looking at the map. At the careful way he's marked potential hazards. The little heart he drew next to "Best view" like he couldn't help himself.

The fact that he shared something personal. Something that's clearly important to him.

When's the last time anyone gave me something that felt this... thoughtful?

Dr. Richardson's flowers were an obligation. A professional courtesy.

This is something entirely different.

This is someone paying attention. Someone noticing that I was cold and under-prepared and maybe a little lost. Not just in the mountains, or this new town… but in life.

This is some who's noticed, and wants to help. To take care of me.

Oh no.

My hands are actually shaking as I set the map down.

Oh no oh no oh no.

I'm in trouble. Deep, inappropriate, workplace-romance trouble with a man who's technically my boss and who probably does this for everyone and who I've known for exactly three days.

My phone is in my hand before I can stop myself.

"Piper," I say the second she answers. "I need an emergency consultation."

"What happened? Are you hurt? Did you fall off a cliff?"

"Worse." I stare at the care package spread across my counter. "I think my boss is secretly romancing me with hiking gloves and lemon cookies."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"He left a care package on my porch. Expensive stuff, Piper. Like, really nice gear. And homemade cookies from his mother's recipe. And..." I pick up the map again, tracing the careful lines with my finger. "And a hand-drawn map to his favorite sunrise spot."

"Oh my God." Piper's voice is pure delight. "Oh my GOD, Brooke! You've been there what, three days? Are you about to go full cabin-wife fantasy? Because I am here for this."

"This is not funny!"

"This is hilarious. And also incredibly romantic. Do you know how long it's been since you called me about a man? Do you remember the last guy you were excited about?"

I think about it and come up empty.

"Dr. Richardson doesn't count," Piper continues. "That disaster was more like a workplace hostage situation than a relationship."

"We are not talking about Dr. Richardson."

"He told me he misses you today. Asked how you were doing. Should I tell him?"

"Stop."

"Fine. Tell me about the map. What kind of map?"

I describe it in detail—the careful handwriting, the personal notes, the little heart next to the best viewpoint.

But my mind is already drifting back to patrol duty today. That moment on the trail when I slipped on that hidden patch of ice. How quickly Jamie moved with those reflexes, how he was catching me before I even registered I was falling.

His hands were so warm against mine. Strong. Steady. The way he looked at me when our bodies collided... like he was seeing something in me no one else had bothered to look for.

I had to go for a run the second I got home, just to forget the feeling of his fingers wrapped around mine.

Just to outpace the memory of how safe I felt wrapped in those big, impressive muscles.

How wanted. How desired .

That's the part that scares me most. The raw hunger I saw flash across his face before he caught himself. Before he switched back to being my boss, lecturing me about proper mountain gear.

He resumed being all grumpy and irritated, and of course, I still found that arousing.

Seriously, something about this man is making me want to bend over and let him do whatever he wants to me.

And I've never felt that way before. Not with anyone.

This raw, highly-sexual need to surrender control completely. To a man I barely know but somehow trust with my body.

"Brooke," Piper says, and her voice has gone soft. "That's not just nice. That's... that's somebody falling for you."

"It's been three days!"

"Sometimes that's all it takes. Besides, didn't you spend your first day there ogling him through a fence while he chopped wood? Sounds like the attraction is mutual."

"I don't ogle."

"You absolutely ogle. I've seen you do it. Remember that firefighter at the hospital Christmas party? You stared at his ass for twenty minutes."

"That was medical research."

"Sure it was." I can hear her grinning through the phone. "So what are you going to do about Mountain Man?"

"His name is Jamie. And nothing. I'm going to do nothing. This is probably just... small-town hospitality. You don't get it… these mountain people are nice. They probably leave care packages for everyone."

"Uh-huh. And the hand-drawn map to his secret sunrise spot?"

"...Standard welcome package?"

"You are being an idiot," Piper continues.

"This man, who by the way you described as looking like a lumberjack fantasy come to life, has noticed that you were cold and under-prepared.

So he bought you expensive gear in your favorite color and shared something personal with you.

That's not hospitality. That's courtship. "

"Courtship." I snort. "What is this, 1850?"

"Fine. That's him wanting to get in your pants while also taking care of you. Which, might I add, is exactly what you need right now."

"I don't need anyone to take care of me."

"Brooke. Honey. You called me three months ago crying because you'd been living on vending machine food and hadn't slept more than four hours a night in weeks. When's the last time someone bought you something just because they wanted you to be comfortable?"

The question hits harder than it should.

"That's different."

"How?"

"Because..." I trail off, staring at the purple mug. "Because I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be someone who gets thoughtful gifts. I'm the person who works sixteen-hour shifts and eats protein bars for dinner."

"Maybe it's time to try being her."

"Piper—"

"I'm serious. You've spent the last ten years taking care of everyone else. Maybe it's time to let someone take care of you for a change."

There's a long pause where I just breathe into the phone, looking at all the evidence of Jamie's thoughtfulness spread everywhere.

"So, you're going to see the sunrise, right?" Piper's voice takes on that mischievous tone I know too well.

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Maybe? Brooke Shields, you are going to drag your workaholic ass up that mountain at dawn and watch the goddamn sunrise at his special spot."

I can't help laughing. "You make it sound so romantic."

"That's because it is! And while you're up there, maybe you'll find something else to rise besides the sun."

"Piper!"

"What? I'm just saying, mountain men know how to use their hands. All that rope work and... wood chopping."

I groan, but I'm smiling. "You're terrible."

"I'm right. And you know it." Her voice softens. "Seriously, Brooke. When's the last time you watched a sunrise that wasn't from a hospital window? When's the last time you did something just because it might bring you joy?"

I lift my head and look at the map again, really seeing it this time.

I can't remember.

"Go see the sunrise," she says gently. "Make sure he's there too. And then tell me everything."

I hang up, my eyes drifting back to the map with that little heart marking the best view.

The way he's marked the trail with such care. The personal notes that suggest he's walked this path hundreds of times. The fact that he wanted to share it with me.

I try to imagine him drawing it. Sitting at his kitchen table with a pencil, carefully sketching each turn, each landmark, his hulking shoulders shadowed over the paper.

I get up and put the cookies in the pantry, telling myself I'll save them for later. The gloves go in the drawer by the door. Practical placement. Nothing sentimental about it.

But the map...

The map goes on my refrigerator.

Right in the center, where I'll see it every morning. Like a shrine to the impossible idea that someone might actually want to share their favorite places with me.

Maybe I should text him? Thank him like a normal person would.

I pick up my phone and start typing: Thanks for the care package. Very thoughtful.

Delete.

The gear is perfect. Thank you.

Delete.

How did you know purple was my favorite color?

Delete delete delete.

You didn't have to do this, but I appreciate it.

God, that sounds so formal. So professional.

The map is beautiful. Will you be at the sunrise with me?

Too eager. Too much.

I set my phone down and lean against the counter, looking at the map again.

Tomorrow is Friday. The winter festival is this weekend. I'll see him there. Or at work tomorrow. I'll thank him in person like a normal human being who doesn't overthink every interaction.