Page 17 of His Stormy Seduction

I can only shake my head, a muscle ticking in my jaw as I take in their sweaty, disheveled appearances.

"You two are certifiable, pulling a stunt like that on Razor Ridge at this time of year," I growl, eyes narrowing. "That whole section is a deathtrap waiting to happen in these conditions."

Wyatt waves a calloused hand, completely unbothered by my disapproval. "Aw, c'mon, Garrett. What happened to that daredevil kid who showed no fear when it came to bagging the gnarliest routes?"

Stylz chimes in, "Yeah, we were talking mad shit about how you used to show us up back in the day. We were both just glad you weren't around this time to make us look like a couple of rank amateurs again. Although I gotta say, sticking that crux move was one of the most satisfying sendssss—"

I tune out Stylz's rambling as vivid memories suddenly flood back. The raw friction of chalky handholds scraping my palms. The dizzying adrenaline rush of clinging to a sheer rock face. That primal connection with nature and life itself.

It all comes roaring back with startling intensity. I can practically smell the tang of exertion, hear my ragged pants as I pushed through each grueling move, utterly consumed by the singular pursuit.

And with those visceral recollections, the gut-punch memory of why I walked away hits me. My dad's lifeless face as they zipped the body bag after his fatal climbing fall. The color draining from those warm green eyes I admired.

The icy fist around my heart squeezes tighter. I was a naive, overconfident kid who thought he was invincible. That Dad's skills would protect him from anything the mountain could dish out.

How fucking unprepared I was for that cruel twist to shatter my world forever.

In the ashes of that grief, I vowed never again. Mitigating risk and maximizing contingencies became my obsession. And in my pursuit of control, of being ten steps ahead of any danger...I lost that part of myself that craved the adrenaline. The thrill of embracing the unknown and pushing my limits.

The realization hits me hard. I've been so focused on preventing tragedy that I forgot what it was to truly live. To feel vibrantly alive.

And in the process, I've robbed that same freedom from Bonnie. Tried to contain her wildfire spirit under the guise of protection, depriving her of that spark that makes her so beautifully, infuriatingly herself. Forcing her to conform to my rules, my need for control at the expense of her passions.

What a fucking hypocrite I've become.

"Hey, earth to Garrett!"

I blink back into focus to find Stylz and Wyatt watching me with matching expressions of concern. Stylz's brows furrow as he studies me intently.

"Everything okay?"

I straighten abruptly, squaring my shoulders and fixing them both with a level look. "No, everything's not okay." I rake a hand through my hair, letting out a harsh exhalation. "I've got something I need to take care of. Now."

Not waiting for a response, I stride purposefully toward the back storage area, already mentally cataloging what supplies I'll need to gather.

"Wait, what's going on, man?" Stylz calls after me, confusion coloring his tone. "We were just messing around. No need to—"

"This isn't about you two jackasses," I growl over my shoulder, already pulling down boxes of climbing gear and tossing them onto the workbench. "It's about me not making the same damn mistake twice."

I'm not about to let Bonnie slip through my fingers because of my own stubborn shortcomings. My inability to embrace life in all its terrifying, wondrous uncertainty.

Not a chance in hell.

I peel out of the rescue station with a screech of tires, the big diesel crew cab truck fishtailing in the loose gravel before I manage to get it under control. Jaw clenched, I gun the accelerator, hurtling up the winding access road that will take me back to Boulder Creek Trail.

Please, let her still be there...

The roar of the engine kicks up another notch as I stomp harder on the gas, propelling us over the last rise in the trail. And there, in a gravel pull-out just off the main path, is the same car I saw Bonnie climb into not long ago. Pulling the truck in beside it, I kill the engine and practically fling myself out the door.

The familiar path winds before me, every bend and rocky outcropping as familiar as the calloused grooves in my own palms. I've trekked this trail more times than I can count over the years, scouting routes and leading rescue teams to pluck stranded hikers from peril.

But nothing could have prepared me for the way my pulse kicks into overdrive at the sight before me.

There, perched on that same jutting precipice where I'd pulled her sodden, half-drowned form from the raging rapids just yesterday, is Bonnie. She's silhouetted against the breathtaking backdrop of snow-capped peaks, one knee drawn up with her chin resting atop it as she stares into the distance.

I draw in a steadying breath as I approach, my boots crunching in the loose scree. Bonnie's head whips around at the sound, eyes widening when she registers my presence.

"Garrett? What are you doing here?"

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