Page 2 of Rescued By the Mountain Guide

That voice. Low and rough, like it’s been dragged over gravel and whiskey, and somehow still smoother than sin. It slides down my spine in a slow, deliberate shiver, curling around something deep in my belly I wasn’t expecting.

I blink, trying to shake the reaction, but it’s already there—lodged behind my ribs, warm and unwelcome.

The man’s presence is… magnetic in the most inconvenient way. Every inch of him screams backwoods danger—silent, brooding, and built like he could wrestle a bear into submission just for the exercise. He doesn’t look at me again, but I feel the weight of that single glance like a brand on my skin.

“Storm’s moving fast," he says. "Everyone ready?”

It’s not a question. It’s a warning.

My fingers tighten around the warm ceramic of my coffee mug, and I suddenly feel every beat of my pulse against the porcelain.

Who the hell is this man?

And why the hell did my heart just skip?

The diner hums with quiet energy now, every local tuned to him like a barometer for whatever’s coming. He doesn’t wear a badge, but he might as well. Authority clings to him like the snow melting off his shoulders—quiet, cold, absolute.

“Got a writer staying at Mabel’s place,” the ranger says, nodding in my direction.

Like I’m not sitting three feet away. Like I’m part of the furniture.

Jackson’s glacier-blue eyes flick to me again, this time assessing. Not the once-over kind of look I’m used to from men in bars or conferences. This one is colder. Calculating. Like he’s measuring my worth and already finding it lacking.

It’s not curiosity. Not appreciation.

It’s dismissal.

And it hits all wrong.

I’m used to double-takes and lingering smiles. Free drinks sent down the bar. The slow lean-in of male attention, half-flirt, half-dare. Men trip over themselves to hold doors, start conversations, ask for a photo—anything to keep me in their orbit a little longer.

But this man?

He looks right through me.

Like I’m a risk assessment, not a person. Like I’m a problem he’s already solving in his head.

My spine stiffens. Heat flares in my chest—part insult, part challenge. I know what I look like. I’ve used it to open doors, charm sources, and get interviews others can’t. It’s not vanity—it’s strategy.

But he doesn’t care.

Worse—he’s already decided I don’t matter.

And that, more than the storm or the sudden shift in the room’s energy, pisses me right the fuck off.

“Writer?” he asks, still not addressing me.

“Heading to Lookout Point,” the ranger replies, as easy as you please.

I set my coffee down with a little too much force.

“Not today.” Jackson’s tone is final, like a slammed door. His gaze slices back to the ranger, ignoring me entirely. “She’s not?—”

He stops, lips pressing into a hard line. Whatever he was about to say, he swallows it.

But I’ve heard enough.

She’s not…?

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