Page 8 of Rescued By the Mountain Guide

Because I should be cursing this storm. My ankle. This entire detour.

Instead, I’m cursing how I keep glancing up at his jawline. The way my skin burns where his hand grips my hip. The way, for a single humiliating heartbeat, I wonder what that hand would feel like lower.

And I hate that I want him.

Jackson fucking Hart.

The human glacier. Stoic, bossy, maddening.

And under all of that—goddamn irresistible.

I grit my teeth and lean harder into him. Not because I need to. Not entirely.

Because I want to remember how this feels—just long enough to make myself forget.

The journey up the mountain is a blur of pain and cold. Each step sends shards of agony through my ankle, but Jackson's firm support never wavers. The storm rages around us, transforming the landscape into an alien white wasteland. Wind slices through my inadequate clothing, finding every seam and gap.

"Almost there." Jackson's voice at my ear barely penetrates the howling gale.

A dark shape materializes through the curtain of snow—a small structure nestled against the mountainside, almost invisible against the surrounding rocks. Relief floods through me, overwhelming even the pain.

Jackson guides me to a heavy wooden door, unbolting it with one hand while supporting my weight with the other. It swings open, and he ushers me inside before the wind can steal our precious body heat.

Darkness envelops us, broken only by the faint gray light filtering through a single small window. The air inside smells of wood, dust, and something metallic—a stark contrast to the sterile cold outside.

"Stay put." Jackson releases me, and I sag against the wall.

The scratch of a match breaks the silence, and warm light blooms as he lights an old-fashioned lantern. The shelter reveals itself: a single room, perhaps fifteen feet square, with stone walls and a wooden floor. A small woodstove occupies one corner, a narrow cot against the opposite wall. Metal shelves hold supplies—canned food, bottles of water, medical supplies, and tools. A table and two chairs stand in the center, utilitarian and worn.

"Not the Ritz," Jackson mutters, moving toward the woodstove. He kneels, arranging kindling and logs with efficient movements.

"It's..." Words fail me. Primitive? Lifesaving? A prison with my least favorite person as warden?

"Shelter." He strikes another match, igniting the kindling. "Which is more than you had twenty minutes ago."

Another barb I can't refute. The fire catches, casting flickering light across the small space. Jackson moves around the shelter with the familiarity of habit, checking supplies, adjusting the ventilation on the stove, and lighting another lantern.

“Sit.” He points to one of the chairs, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Ankle elevated.”

My body moves before my pride can argue, collapsing into the seat like I’ve been cut loose. The second I stop moving, the exhaustion hits—sharp, relentless, total. The adrenaline that kept me upright seeps out of my pores, leaving me limp and shaking.

Jackson kneels in front of me again, reaching for the laces of my boot.

He pauses, fingers hovering.

“You gonna bite my head off again if I touch you?”

I glare down at him, my lips pressed tight. “Depends. You planning on barking another order?”

His gaze lifts slowly. That icy-blue stare holds mine, unwavering. “Only if you do something stupid.”

My mouth opens—but nothing comes out.

Because he’s right.

Again.

“Fine,” I mutter. “Proceed, Dr. Doom.”

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