The man has a point. “Okay,” I say, the word tasting like defeat and relief all tangled together. “Lead the way.”
He gives me a quick nod, something like approval flashing across his face, and jogs back to his truck, snow kicking up around his boots. I watch him go, trying very hard not to notice how good he looks even in bulky winter gear. Trying not to notice the confident way he moves, like he knows exactly what he is doing and where he’s going. Ignoring the way my heart rate has not quite returned to normal. Checking out hot men is not why you are here, I remind myself firmly. You are here to avoid men, remember? To heal. To be independent and strong, and definitely not get distracted by hot rescuers who save damsels in distress on a daily basis. The pep talk lasts approximately thirty seconds before I am following his taillights through the storm, my treacherous brain already wondering what the man lookslike under all those layers. What his hands would feel like on my skin. Whether he is single. What his story is.
Stop it, I tell my brain. Just stop. But my brain, much like the rest of me lately, is not particularly good at following directions. This is going to be a long three days. Possibly the longest three days of my life. As I follow those red taillights through the storm, something in my chest that has been tight and anxious for weeks starts to loosen just slightly. Maybe running away to the mountains has not been my worst idea after all. Maybe, just maybe, the universe knows what it is doing. Or maybe I’m just desperate enough to believe that getting snowed in with a hot firefighter is some kind of cosmic gift instead of another disaster waiting to happen.
Time will tell.
2
SLOANE
The ranger station appears through the snow like something out of a dream. Or a nightmare. It’s a small wooden building that appears to have been built in the 1970s and hasn’t been updated since. Weathered wood siding, a sagging porch that has seen better decades, and windows that probably leak air like a sieve. But it has lights, heat, and most importantly, it is not a ditch on the side of the road. At this point, I’m not in a position to be picky.
He pulls his truck right up to the front, the headlights cutting through the swirling snow before he kills the engine. He’s out of his cab in seconds, moving with the kind of efficiency that comes from years of emergency response training. Before I can even unbuckle my seatbelt, he is at my door, pulling it open.
“Let me help you with your bags,” he says, already reaching past me into the back seat.
Oh. What a gentleman. I’m not used to being treated so nicely. What does that say about your choice of men, Sloane? A lot, really. The scent of him hits me. Wood smoke and winter air and something darker, more masculine. My brain short-circuits for the second time in an hour. Get it together, Sloane. He is justbeing helpful. This is his job. You are a person in distress, and he is rescuing you. That is literally what rescue guys do. I need to stop watching Christmas movies, they are putting the wrong idea into my head, this is nothing like one of them.
He helps me carry my bags inside, his hand briefly touching my lower back to guide me through the door as I navigate the snow-covered steps in my completely inadequate boots. It was barely a touch, professional and polite, the kind of touch you would give anyone you were helping. But I felt it everywhere. A spark of heat travels up my spine and settles low in my belly. A flutter in my chest that had nothing to do with the cold or the fear, or the adrenaline crash I was definitely experiencing. You are being ridiculous, Sloane. This poor man is trying to do his civic duty, and all you keep doing is ogling him and dreaming up out-of-this-world romantic scenarios about him. You should be ashamed of yourself.
Ignoring my inner thoughts, I concentrate on my surroundings. The interior of the station is exactly what you would expect from a remote government building that sees minimal use. One large room serving as office, living room, and kitchen all in one. A worn couch that has seen better days is pushed against one wall, its plaid fabric is faded and threadbare in spots. A wooden table with three mismatched chairs that look like they have been salvaged from different decades. A small kitchenette in the corner with a mini fridge, a hot plate, and a coffee maker that looks older than me. And in the corner, a stone fireplace with actual flames crackling and popping, throwing dancing shadows across the knotty pine walls. It smells like wood smoke and stale coffee and something else, something clean and masculine that I’m pretty sure is the man himself.
“It’s not much,” he says, setting my bags down near the couch. There is something almost apologetic in his tone, asif he’s embarrassed by the humble accommodations. “But it’s warm and dry.”
“It’s perfect. Thank you. I’m just going to stay cozied up in bed watching movies anyway.” And I mean it. After hours in the car, thirty minutes of genuine terror on that mountain road, and the very real possibility that I was going to die alone in a ditch, this place looks like the Ritz-Carlton.
He shrugs off his heavy jacket, hanging it on a hook by the door, and oh no.
Oh no, no, no.
This is not fair. This is not fair at all. Underneath, he wears a fitted thermal shirt in dark blue that does absolutely nothing to hide the fact that he is built like someone who regularly carries people out of burning buildings for a living. Broad shoulders that could probably support the weight of the world. Muscular arms that stretch the fabric in ways that should be illegal. A chest that looks solid and strong, perfect for pressing your face against while he wraps those arms around you and makes you feel safe. Not that I was thinking about that. I was absolutely not thinking about that. I force my eyes away, suddenly finding the kitchenette fascinating. Look at that ancient coffee maker. And that mini fridge. So interesting. Much more interesting than the hot guy currently standing five feet away from me.
“There’s food in the cabinets,” he says, completely unaware of my internal crisis. Or maybe he was aware and was just politely ignoring it. “Non-perishables mostly. Canned soup, crackers, instant coffee.” That’s okay, I have a liquor store of wine in my car and a deli’s worth of cheese. “Not gourmet, but it will keep us fed for a few days. Water in the fridge. The generator should last us through the storm if we’re not wasteful with the power. And I have a charger for your phone.”
A charger. Oh, thank God. My connection to the outside world can be restored. I will not be completely cut off. Riley canstop imagining my frozen corpse being discovered by hikers in the spring. Wait, did he say us?
“Us?” The word escapes before I can stop it. Before I can process what he just said.
He turns to look at me, and I swear amusement dances in those hazel eyes. “Well, yeah. I am stuck here too. Someone has got to make sure you do not decide to hike up to your cabin in the middle of a blizzard.”
“I’m not that stubborn.” Even as the words leave my mouth, I know it’s a lie. I am absolutely that stubborn. It’s one of my defining character traits, according to literally everyone who knows me. Riley says it’s both my best and worst quality. My mother says it will be the death of me. Chett said it was exhausting. His expression says he doesn’t believe me for a second. The slight quirk of his eyebrow, the tiny smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Yeah, he has me pegged already. Smart man. “Right,” I say, looking around the small space again. Really looking at it this time, letting the reality sink in. “So, we are roommates?”
“Emergency roommates,” he says.
“Is that a thing?”
“It is now I guess.” He grins.
We stand there for a moment, just looking at each other, and the reality of the situation settles over me like a weighted blanket. I’m going to be stuck in a small cabin with a stranger, a ridiculously attractive stranger who smells good, has kind eyes, and a voice that does things to my insides, for at least three days. Maybe longer, depending on how this storm plays out. This will either be the best or worst decision I have ever made. And given my track record lately, given the spectacular implosion of my engagement, my career, and basically my entire life, I was not putting money on best.
“I should probably know more about you, if we’re going to be emergency roommates,” I ask, shrugging off my wet jacket and hanging it next to his on the hook by the door.
“Fair enough.” He leans against the counter, crossing his arms over that chest in a way that makes his biceps flex. I try very hard not to stare at those arms, but fail spectacularly. “Jax Reid. Thirty-two. Firefighter. Volunteer Mountain Search and Rescue with the county for seven years. I like long walks on the beach, candlelit dinners, and saving people from their own bad decisions.”
Despite everything, despite the stress, fear, and complete upheaval of my entire existence, I laugh. Actually laugh. “Wow. You really went there with the dating profile clichés.”
“Made you smile though.” He smirks, and that smirk should come with a warning label. Caution: May cause heart palpitations, poor decision-making, and temporary loss of common sense.
