Page 13 of Rescued By the Mountain Guide

"Fuck." The word explodes from him, rough and raw. "I shouldn't have?—"

My lips still tingle, my body humming with unexpected desire. Words fail me completely.

Jackson runs a hand through his hair, agitation in every movement. "This is exactly why—" He stops, jaw working. "I can't do this."

"Jackson—"

"Don't." He holds up a hand, avoiding my gaze. "That was a mistake. A serious lapse in judgment."

The dismissal stings more than it should. "That's one way to describe it."

His eyes finally meet mine, conflicted and stormy. "I can't trust myself around you."

Before I can respond, he grabs his heavy coat from its hook, shoving his arms into sleeves with jerky movements.

"What are you doing?" Alarm cuts through my confusion. "You can't go out there."

"I need air." He yanks a wool hat over his dark hair and reaches for gloves.

"It's a blizzard!" My voice rises with genuine fear. "You just finished lecturing me about mountain safety."

"I know this mountain better than I know myself." He checks a compass and tucks it into his pocket. "I'll follow the guide rope to the storage cache and back. Half hour, max."

"That's insane." I step toward him, forgetting my injured ankle, and stumble.

Jackson instinctively reaches out to steady me, then pulls back as if burned by the contact. "I'll be fine."

"You can't leave." The words come out more pleading than I intend. "It's not safe."

"Neither is staying right here." His expression shutters, all emotion locked away. "The radio's on the table. Crank it every hour to check in with base. If I'm not back in three hours—" He hesitates. "Tell them where I went."

The door opens, admitting a violent blast of snow and wind before slamming shut behind him, leaving me alone in the sudden silence.

"Dammit!" My palm slams against the wooden wall in frustration.

What just happened? One moment, we’re arguing; the next, we’re kissing as if our lives depend on it, and then he's storming out into a deadly blizzard rather than spend another minute in my presence.

I hobble to the window, pressing my face against the cold glass. Nothing is visible but swirling white. The storm has already swallowed Jackson. Worry gnaws at my insides, along with a healthy dose of anger. How dare he risk his life to avoid dealing with an awkward situation? How dare he kiss me like that, and then flee as if I'm the one who initiated it?

More importantly, how dare my body still hum with awareness, still crave his touch?

The shelter feels cavernous without his commanding presence, the silence oppressive. I busy myself with tasks—stoking the fire, organizing supplies, anything to avoid dwelling on the pressure of his lips against mine, the strength in his hands, the solid warmth of his body.

Minutes stretch into an hour. I crank the radio as instructed, reporting that all remains well at the shelter, carefully omitting that Jackson has ventured out. No need to worry others yet. He said he'd be back.

The second hour passes more slowly, worry crystallizing into genuine fear. The storm shows no signs of abating, if anything intensifying.

What if he lost the guide rope? What if he slipped? What if he's lying injured somewhere on the mountain, slowly freezing while I sit helplessly in this shelter?

By the third hour, I've prepared myself to radio for help, rehearsing how to explain that the mountain's most experienced guide has vanished into a blizzard rather than deal with an unwanted attraction.

The door suddenly bangs open, admitting a snow-covered figure. Jackson staggers inside, ice crusting his beard and eyebrows, his skin frightening pale where visible.

Relief floods me so powerfully that my knees nearly buckle. "You're alive."

He secures the door against the howling wind before turning to face me. His eyes look hollow, exhausted, but his expression reveals nothing of what he's been thinking during his dangerous excursion.

"Told you I would be." His voice sounds rough, as if unused for days rather than hours.

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