To my surprise, the corner of his mouth twitches. "Got a lot of blank pages in that notebook, I'm guessing."
"Hey, I'll have you know I've watched every episode of 'Alone' and I own three flannel shirts." I wrap my arms around myself, trying to stop shivering. The snow is falling harder now, and the wind cuts right through my coat – which, I'm realizing, was probably designed more for Seattle drizzle than Montana blizzards.
Dean's expression shifts from amused to concerned. "You're freezing. Get back in the truck."
"But Chester—"
"Chester?"
"The truck," I explain, then immediately wish I hadn't when his eyebrow rises.
"Right." He shakes his head. "We can leave it here for tonight. We'll come back tomorrow and have... Chester... out after the storm."
I hesitate. The smart, Seattle thing to do would be to decline help from a stranger, no matter how officially mountain-man gorgeous he might be. But I'm not in Seattle anymore, and my options are pretty limited. "Thank you. I really appreciate—wait. Tomorrow?! I-"
"Tomorrow," he cuts me off, already turning toward the darkness. "Winter's coming early this year. You won’t make it to town tonight."
"What? But I have to! All my stuff..." I gesture at Chester. "My boxes..."
He stops, shoulders tense. "There's a storm system moving in. Bad one. Road to town goes higher up before it drops down into the valley. It'll be worse there." He turns back, and something in his expression makes my heart skip a beat. "I've got a guest cabin. You can wait it out there."
My throat goes dry. A cabin? With him? Alone? Every romance novel I've ever read flashes through my mind, quickly followed by every horror movie. But there's something about him – something in the way he keeps his distance, the careful way he watches me – that feels safe. Safer than the alternative, anyway.
"I can't leave Chester here all night," I say, but my resolve is weakening as another gust of wind hits.
"Chester will be fine. These mountains? Not so forgiving." He starts walking away, his boots crunching in the snow. "Your choice. But make it fast. Storm's not waiting on your decision."
I look at my truck, then at the dark road ahead, then at Dean's retreating back. The responsible thing would be to call for help, except my phone's useless. The safe thing would be to stay put, except I'm already shaking from the cold. The smart thing...
Well, I left smart behind in Seattle.
"Wait!" I grab my emergency overnight bag from the passenger seat – the one my best friend insisted I pack "justin case you have a sexy mountain man encounter." I'm never telling her she was right. "I'm coming. But if you turn out to be an axe murderer, I'm leaving a one-star review on Yelp."
He actually chuckles at that, the sound rich and unexpected. "Noted. Though I doubt Yelp has a category for 'mountain man murderers.'"
"You'd be surprised what you can review on Yelp these days." I follow him through the snow, trying not to focus on how easily he moves through it while I stumble like a newborn deer. "So... you do this often? Rescue stranded city girls?"
"Only the ones who name their trucks."
I can't tell if he's making fun of me, but there's warmth in his voice that wasn't there before. Still, as I follow this stranger into the darkness, I can't help but wonder if I'm making another impulsive decision I'll regret.
But then again, the last time I followed my impulses, it led me here – to a fresh start, a bookstore of my own, and apparently, a mountain man rescue straight out of a Hallmark movie.
Chapter 2
Dean
The last thing I need right now is a city girl with summer boots and a sunshine smile stumbling through my woods. But watching her trip through the snow ahead of me, all soft curvesand determined chin, I can't make myself regret stopping.
"Here." I catch her elbow as she nearly face-plants into another drift. Her skin burns hot against my fingers, even through layers of fabric. "Walk in my footsteps."
She glances back, cheeks flushed from cold and exertion. "That would work better if your stride wasn't approximately twice the length of mine."
Christ. Even her complaints are adorable. I adjust my pace, trying not to notice how she fits perfectly under my shoulder, or how she smells like vanilla and coffee. The scent cuts through the crisp mountain air, making my head spin more than the altitude ever has.
"So," she says, breathing hard, "is mountain rescue your full-time job, or just a hobby?"
"I run the local sawmill." And hunt. And fish. And spend a lot of time alone in these mountains, which might explain why I'm hyperaware of every move she makes. "Though lately, it feels like professional wildlife relocator."
