Page 16 of His Stormy Seduction

Not that I'm any better at defusing the situation. The mere insinuation that I'm incapable of looking after myself is like a match to gasoline. My blood boils hotter with every self-righteous word that spills from those rugged lips.

Then a dull thwapping breaks the charged silence, and we both glance upward at the unmistakable sound of rotor blades. The rescue chopper is a mere speck in the distance, but it's rapidly growing larger, circling overhead to locate a place to land.

"We're not done with this conversation," Garrett bites out before turning to signal the approaching aircraft.

The helicopter's downdraft whips my hair into a frenzy as it lowers toward a relatively flat clearing near the base of the ridge. We board in tense silence, the only communication between us a brief, loaded look as we strap ourselves into the jump seats across from each other. His expression is unreadable beneath the hardened mask he's adopted, but there's a muscle ticking in that chiseled jaw that speaks to some deeper inner turmoil.

The short flight back to the trailhead parking area seems to stretch into an eternity. I keep my gaze fixed firmly out the window, drinking in the sweeping views of snow-capped peaks and lush valleys that had fueled my initial excitement for this shoot.

How naive I was back then, so blissfully unaware of the life-altering collision course ahead. Of the way one mere chance encounter with a rugged mountain man would shake the foundations of everything I thought I knew about myself.

The chopper touches down, and I unbuckle myself with jerky movements, desperate to put some distance between Garrett and me before this powder keg goes off completely. I storm toward my car, the rush of adrenaline making my movements clipped and agitated.

"Bonnie, wait." Garrett's gruff command has me freezing mid-stride, fingers curling into fists at my sides. I whirl back to face him, jaw clenched.

"Look," I snap. "I get that you want to swoop in and save the day—it's what you do. But you can't just make decisions about my life without me."

His jaw tightens, eyes blazing. "This isn't just about you. Your carelessness nearly got us both killed back there!"

I bristle at the harsh accusation. "Just because I don't conform to your overprotective, play-it-safe worldview doesn't make me careless."

"No, it just makes you selfish."

For several beats, I can only gape at him, stunned by the low blow. Then my chin juts out defiantly. "Have you stopped to consider that maybe your desperate need to control everything is just as self-serving?"

His jaw works furiously, but I hold up a hand, suddenly too drained to continue the vicious back-and-forth cycle.

"Look, maybe you're right—we're just too different. I need freedom and spontaneity to breathe. And you need..." I trail off with a helpless shrug. "Rules and safety nets."

I rake a hand through my messy hair. "This was insane from the start. A couple of adrenaline junkies getting our wires crossed after that near-death experience, mistaking hot sex for some deeper connection."

The words leave a hollow ache in their wake, but I force myself to meet Garrett's shuttered gaze. "I should go."

With a last glance over my shoulder, I force my leaden feet toward my car. Garrett remains rooted in place, arms hanging tensely at his sides. For a fleeting instant, I think he's going to call out to me, to try and stop this.

But then the moment shatters, and I'm pulling open my car door, every ounce of forward momentum requiring a staggering effort. I sink numbly into the driver's seat as the engine rumbles to life with a turn of the key.

Only once I'm peeling out of the trailhead parking lot, leaving Garrett and our smoldering wreckage of a fling in the rearview mirror, do the first hot, rebellious tears finally slip free.

Chapter 8

Garrett

The clang of metal against metal rings out sharply in the cavernous garage as I toss another coiled length of rappelling rope into the supply bin with more force than necessary. Gritting my teeth, I snatch up a bundle of carabiners and start methodically clipping and unclipping them, the rhythmic motions usually so soothing now grating on my raw nerves.

I should've known better than to think mindlessly inventorying gear would be enough of a distraction. Every tool, every piece of lifesaving equipment I touch, is all an inescapable reminder of why I'm in this emotional hellscape to begin with.

My single-minded need to mitigate risk. To safeguard at all costs, even if it means stripping someone of their autonomy in the process.

The memory of the devastated look on Bonnie's face as she stormed away plays on an anguished loop in my mind's eye. The shattered light in those warm brown depths, the angry slash of her brows as she hurled those brutal parting words at me...

"Someone looks like they're still nursing an epic hangover from that rescue op last night," Stylz's jovial voice suddenly rings out. He's striding into the garage alongside Wyatt Croft, the pair's boisterous laughter echoing off the bare walls.

They're both flushed and grinning from ear to ear, eyes sparkling with the thrill of whatever mountain escapade they've clearly just returned from. Stylz is still dusting off bits of rock chalk from his palms.

"Hell of a climb, eh brother? That multi-pitch had me questioning a few of my life choices for sure!"

Wyatt laughs. "Like you've ever had the good sense to second guess one of your crazy stunts. Ain't that right, boss?"

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