Page 17 of Rescued By the Mountain Guide

I relocate to the floor near the woodstove; my notebook clutched like a shield. Jackson settles nearby, close enough for safety but maintaining a careful distance. The firelight catches the planes of his face, highlighting cheekbones and casting shadows beneath his brow. Unfairly handsome, even—especially—in this primal setting.

Hours pass in strained silence, broken only by necessary communication. The cold intensifies despite the fire’s best efforts. My fingers grow stiff around my pen, and my notes become increasingly illegible.

"You're shivering." Jackson observes, watching me attempt to suppress another violent tremor.

"I'm fine." The chattering of my teeth betrays the lie.

"You're hypothermic." He rises, retrieving a heavy woolen blanket from the cot. Instead of simply handing it to me, he settles beside me, draping the blanket over our shoulders.

The sudden proximity steals my breath. His body radiates heat, solid and substantial against my side. Every nerve ending springs to alert awareness, hyper-focused on each point of contact—shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, thigh to thigh.

"Conservation of resources." His voice rumbles close to my ear, sending entirely different shivers down my spine. "Basic survival."

"Right. Survival." The word emerges breathier than intended.

Beneath the blanket, warmth blooms between us, chasing away the numbing cold. His scent surrounds me—pine and wood smoke and something uniquely him, masculine and oddly comforting.

"Better?" The question carries unexpected gentleness.

"Yes." Truth, though not entirely because of the physical warmth.

Firelight dances across the shelter's interior, casting everything in amber and shadow. Time loses meaning, measured now by the gradual return of sensation to my fingertips, the rhythmic rise and fall of Jackson's chest beside mine, and the occasional crack of burning wood.

"Tell me about your writing." His request breaks the silence, surprising me.

"What do you want to know?"

"Why this article matters so much. Worth risking everything for."

The question deserves honesty. "It's my chance. Three years writing fluff pieces about tourist traps and overpriced restaurants, following someone else's formula. This is the first assignment where they're letting me choose the angle and find the story beneath the surface."

"And what story are you finding?" His gaze remains on the fire, profile strong in the flickering light.

"I thought it was about hidden natural wonders." My voice softens. "Now I'm not so sure."

"What changed?"

My turn to watch the flames. "Met a mountain guide who sees these peaks as more than scenery or adventure. Someone who respects their power and understands their dangers. Makes for a more complex narrative."

His shoulders tense slightly beneath the blanket. "Don't make me your story, Cloe."

My name on his lips sends an unexpected thrill through me. It's the first time he's used it directly.

"Everyone has a story." The firelight emboldens me. "Yours is compelling."

"Mine is private." The words lack their usual edge, softened by our shared warmth.

"Fair enough." I concede, shifting slightly to ease my position. The movement brings us closer, my head now resting naturally against his shoulder. Neither of us acknowledges this new proximity, though the tension in his body suggests acute awareness.

"What about your story?" he asks after several heartbeats of silence. "The one that doesn't make it into the magazine article."

The question catches me off-guard. "Nothing exciting. I had a middle-class upbringing in Burlington, overprotective parents, college, a journalism degree, and an endless string of entry-level positions."

"And here you are, defying death on a mountain." Something like understanding colors his tone. "Proving them wrong."

The insight strikes uncomfortably close to the truth. "Maybe."

"Some things aren't worth proving, Cloe." His voice drops lower, intimate in the diminishing firelight. "Some risks aren't worth taking."

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