Page 22 of Knotting With A Stranger

“The fact that we’re drowning in comfort cookies is purely coincidental.” Her smile fades to something softer. “Seriously, though. Go for a drive. Scream along to Taylor Swift. Get some air that doesn’t smell like sugar and regret.”

I look down at my phone, no longer with his number. Memories that were beautiful, impossible things that were never meant to last.

“Yeah,” I say finally. “Maybe I will.”

6

HUNTER

The wind howls like a wounded beast, whipping snow against my windshield faster than the wipers can clear it. Even with the chains on my F-350’s tires and the weight of supplies in the back, I can feel the truck fighting against the gusts. Fucking useless weather report. They said the storm wouldn’t hit until tomorrow, giving everyone plenty of time to prepare. Instead, it slammed into the mountains like a freight train, catching everyone with their pants down.

“What do you think, Thor? Weather service screwed us again, didn’t they?”

The massive malamute in the passenger seat huffs in agreement, his warm breath fogging the side window. I reach over to scratch behind his ears. Thor’s been my constant companion for years now, ever since I found him as a half-frozen pup during a rescue operation. Now he’s a mountain of fur and muscle and better company than most humans I know.

“At least we got the supplies before it hit.”

The bed of my truck is loaded with containers of shelf-stable food, medical supplies, and enough firewood to keep my cabin warm through what was supposed to be tomorrow’s storm. The back seat’s crammed with fresh produce and meat. Living in the mountains means you either stock up or starve, and I’ve seen enough winter disasters to know which I prefer.

Thor’s ears suddenly prick forward, and he lets out a low whine. My hands tighten on the steering wheel as another gust tries to push the truck sideways. The road ahead is barely visible, just a suggestion of pavement beneath the growing blanket of white. In the mountains, storms don’t just block roads—they erase them completely.

“Easy, boy. We know these roads.”

Years of mountain driving experience keep my movements steady and controlled. I know every turn and switchback like I know the scars on my hands. Has to be in my line of work as a rescuer. Can’t save others if you can’t find your way home.

The memory of my last mission—a family of tourists who thought winter hiking would beadventurous—makes me grimace. Got them out just before hypothermia set in, but it was close. Too close. People don’t respect these mountains, don’t understand how quickly things can go wrong up here.

Like my parents learned. Like I learned, watching the search teams dig for them through that avalanche, my grandfather’s hand tight on my shoulder.

Thor’s sudden bark snaps me back to the present. Through the whiteout, I catch a flash of red—brake lights, dim and distorted by the snow, but definitely there. I ease off the gas, squinting through the storm. As I get closer, the scene materializes like a photograph developing… a sedan. Its side end crumpled against the guardrail, listing dangerously toward the drop-off beyond.

“Fuck.” The word fogs in the cab’s warmth. That guardrail won’t hold if the wind picks up more, and from the way the trees are bending, it’s going to get worse before it gets better.

Thor whines again, more urgently this time. He knows what comes next—we’ve done enough rescues together.

“Stay,” I command, though I know he’ll ignore me if I leave the door open. Grabbing my heavy storm gear, insulated gloves, waterproof jacket, and hat pulled low, I brace myself before opening the door.

The cold slams into me, driving needles of ice through every gap in my clothing. The wind nearly yanks the door from my grip as I force it shut, then battle my way toward the stranded vehicle. Snow pelts my face, the few inches of exposed skin already going numb despite my beard’s protection.

There’s movement inside the car—thank God they’re alive and haven’t tried walking for help. As I reach the driver’s window, I catch my first glimpse of the person inside, and my breath catches in my throat.

She’s stunning—dark brown hair shot through with highlights frames a heart-shaped face, golden-brown eyes wide with a mixture of fear and determination. Her features are delicate, with high cheekbones and full lips currently pressed into a worried line.

I ask, “You need help?”

“Kinda stuck.” When she pushes open the door at my gesture, those eyes are even more striking up close, flecked with gold, studying me with wariness and hope. A few wild curls escape her hat, fluttering in the wind that whips between us.

Push it down. Focus on the job.

“We need to get you out of here,” I tell her, assessing the car’s position. “Storm’s getting worse, and this guardrail won’t hold if the wind picks up more.”

I see the uncertainty flash across her face—smart girl, she should be cautious—but I also see the moment she processes her situation, the same way I’m already planning our next moves. She glances at her phone, sighs, and sets it down. “I can’t get a signal out here.”

“You won’t and the storm’s going to get worse. You’re in danger staying out here.”

She glances at the steep drop beyond the guardrail and lets out a shaky laugh. “So this isn't exactly how I planned to spend my day.”

I half-chuckle at her attempt to cover her fear. “You’re safe. But I need to get to the truck now, and this guardrail won't hold if the wind picks up more.”

---