Page 12 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

My hands go still.

My attention snaps so hard it’s like a trap springing shut.

Because no one comes up here.

No one is supposed to.

I grab my coat off the hook, shove my feet into boots, and take the flashlight by the door.

The storm rages harder, like it’s trying to warn me back.

But I’m already moving.

Already crossing the threshold.

Already stepping into the white.

The cold slaps my face and steals my breath as I push through the side-falling rain, following the sound toward the bend where the path disappears under a mini mudslide.

And then I see her.

A figure half-staggering, half-limping up the road like she’s fighting the mountain itself.

She’s bundled in a coat that looks expensive even thoroughly soaked.

Dark hair plastered to her cheeks.

Lips pink from cold.

Eyes bright and wild and… too damn soft for this place.

Holy fuck, she’s gorgeous.

The kind of gorgeous that belongs under city lights, not under storm clouds.

My beam sweeps lower and catches a flash of something so wrong it almost makes me laugh.

A heel.

Designer.

Sinking into the mud like a bad joke.

My jaw tightens.

Because whatever she is—lost tourist, idiot daredevil, viral-hunting fan—she doesn’t belong on my mountain.

And my mountain doesn’t forgive mistakes.

Not anymore.

“H-hello? Hello! Can you help?” she calls out, and her voice—fuck, it’s husky and quaking with something—cold or kismet? I’m not sure.

She is soaked, and I can see her shiver despite her ridiculously expensive coat.

“Oh, thank God, I thought I was gonna die out here,” she gasps.

I clench my teeth as she starts towards me.