Page 40 of Rescued By the Mountain Guide

"Why did you drive past the guesthouse?" The question emerges softer than intended.

The kettle whistles, shrill in the weighted silence. He takes his time answering, pouring steaming water into mugs and adding tea bags with deliberate focus.

"Because I wanted to see you." The admission emerges rough-edged, reluctant. "And didn't want to see you. Both."

The honesty disarms me more effectively than any evasion could have. Jackson turns, extending a mug without quite meeting my eyes.

"I get it." My fingers brush his during the exchange, sending unwelcome warmth up my arm. "I've been writing a paragraph about snowpack conditions for two hours because it keeps me from writing about you."

Something almost like a smile touches his mouth before disappearing. "How's the article coming otherwise?"

"Good. Almost done." The tea burns sweet and strong on my tongue. "Just missing the element my editor insists will make it cover-worthy."

"Which is?"

"The mysterious mountain guide with the tragic past and hero complex." The attempt at lightness falls flat. "Her words, not mine."

Jackson's expression darkens. "Using me to sell magazines."

"I told her no." My voice rises slightly. "Why do you immediately assume the worst?"

"Experience." He sets his mug down with unnecessary force. "Everyone wants something."

"Not everything is transactional, Jackson." Irritation flares, hot and sudden. "Some people just care."

"About a man they knew for four days?" Skepticism drips from every word.

"Four days of survival. Intimacy. Honesty." Each word emerges sharper than the last. "Or was that all transactional, too? My body in exchange for warmth? My story for your protection?"

His eyes narrow dangerously. "That's not what happened."

"Isn't it? Because you've made it pretty clear that's all it could ever be." The hurt I've been suppressing bubbles up, acidic and undeniable. "God forbid you actually feel something genuine again. Much easier to hide behind Emma's ghost."

The moment the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Jackson's face transforms, pain flashing raw before iron control slams down.

"You don't know what you're talking about." His voice drops to something dangerous, quiet.

"Don't I?" Something reckless drives me forward, closing the distance between us. "I know you're using guilt as a shield. I know you're punishing yourself by refusing to live fully. I know you felt something real in that shelter, something that scared you more than any blizzard."

His breathing changes, becomes measured and controlled. "You should go."

"Why? Because I'm right?" Another step closer, close enough to catch his scent, to feel the heat radiating from his body. "Or because you drove past my hotel today wondering what if?"

"Stop." The word emerges strained, a warning.

"Make me." My palms connect with his chest, a gentle shove born of frustration rather than anger.

His hand catches my wrist—not roughly, just enough to halt the movement. Electricity crackles between us, familiar and dangerous. His eyes drop to my lips for the briefest moment, pupils dilating slightly.

The air thickens, every breath suddenly requiring effort. My chest rises and falls rapidly, matching his increasingly uneven breathing.

"Tell me you didn't think about it." My voice drops to barely above a whisper. "About me. After."

Jackson's response comes in motion rather than words—his free hand sliding behind my neck, fingers tangling in my damp hair, pulling me toward him with unmistakable intent.

Our mouths collide with none of the tentative exploration of our first real kiss. This is hunger, frustration, and days of emptiness seeking fulfillment. His lips move against mine with desperate intensity, tongue demanding entrance I eagerly grant.

My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, needing to eliminate any space between us. Jackson responds by walking me backward until my spine meets the wall, his body pressing against mine with delicious weight.

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