Page 4 of Rescued by the Single Dad

His jaw dropped.

“Oh God. Oh God. Oh God, oh God.” He leaned down and pressed his ear to her mouth to check to see if she was breathing . But he couldn’t tell. All he heard was the pounding of his pulse in his ears.

He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her gently, but forcefully. “Brooke. Ms. Barker, you need to wake up. Oh my God. Fuck.”

He sat down on the rocks and pulled her head into his lap, pressed his fingers to her neck. She had a pulse.

Hall-e-fucking-lujah, she had a pulse.

Leaning down, he put his cheek in front of her nose and waited. He couldn’t hear her breathing, but this time, he could feel it. Shallow puffs of air hit his cheek.

“Thank fuck.”

She was ice-cold to the touch, but she was alive.

He couldn’t run back and get help. That would leave her out here longer. She needed to get warm, and she needed to get warm fast.

He wore his typical flannel button-up with a white T-shirt underneath, and dark-wash jeans, so he unbuttoned his flannel and wrapped her up in it, then hoisted her into his arms and headed back up to the tide line.

It was amazing how quickly an experience like this could sober a person because he didn’t stumble or stagger once. Back up under the brewery deck, he carried her. Past the brewpub, past the cabins that were only half-full right now since it wasn’t peak season yet, and toward the five porch lights beyond the trees and up the hill.

He reached his front door and, balancing Brooke in one arm, reached for the latch with the other.

“Back so soon?” came Jagger’s voice from the living room.

“Need fucking help,” Clint said with a grunt.

Jagger reached Clint in seconds. His mouth went slack, then he flicked on a light. “What the fuck?”

“Found her on the beach.”

“Is she—”

“She’s alive, but she’s hypothermic. Need blankets and heating pads. I have an electric blanket in the chest at the foot of my bed. And call Grayson.”

Jagger nodded, then paused. “You don’t want to call 9-1-1?”

“Do you see who this is?” Clint asked with panic, glancing down at the woman.

Jagger looked closer at the woman in Clint’s arms, then his blue eyes went wide behind his glasses. “Holy fuck, is that—?

“Brooke Barker? I think so. No need to have paparazzi here. Call Grayson.”

Jagger nodded again and pulled his phone out of his pocket as he took off upstairs toward Clint’s bedroom.

Clint carried Brooke over to the couch and laid her down gently, then he started grabbing all the throws and blankets that he had in the living room and piled them on top of her.

Jagger came thundering down the stairs with more blankets, the electric blanket and some of those beanbag things you could either put in the microwave or freezer. “Grayson says he’ll be here in ten.”

“Thanks,” Clint said.

“Jesus Christ.” The microwave buttons beeped. “What the hell happened?” Jagger called from the kitchen.

Clint shook his head. “No fucking clue.” He found an outlet nearest to the couch, then plugged in the electric blanket and brought it over to put beneath Brooke’s feet before he covered them with some of the blankets Jagger brought.

Jagger returned to the living room while the microwave hummed in the background. He pulled on his long beard. Even though he was the baby of the family, he had the longest, thickest beard. He kept his hair short and wore glasses. He had what a lot of women called the lumbersexual look, particularly since he liked to wear flannel and jeans like Clint. Clint couldn’t let his beard get that long without it getting itchy, but it worked for Jagger, and he certainly had a long stream of female admirers.

“Where the fuck did you find her?” Jagger asked.

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