Page 47 of Nate Hayes

“You nearly got yourself killed.”

“You nearly broke my ribs.”

“You’re welcome.”

When I hauled her off the roof and into my truck, she was still filming.

“Name?” I asked.

“Lark Bennett,” she said, brushing her gorgeous, wild red hair off her face. “You always tackle women off rooftops, or am I just a special case?”

I growled. “Next time you want to fly into danger, don’t do it on my mountain.”

She smirked. “Then maybe you shouldn’t look so good while rescuing people.”

27

Axel

The road out of the south ridge was underwater.

I cursed under my breath. Lark leaned forward in the passenger seat, totally unfazed. “Ooh. Flash flood?”

“This isn’t a sightseeing tour.”

She shrugged. “Depends who you ask.”

I turned around and took the backup route toward one of our emergency cabins. Secure. Off-grid. Stocked.

“You have family nearby?” I asked.

“Nope. Just me and Eggs.”

I frowned. “Eggs?”

“My drone.”

Of course it was.

By the time we reached the cabin, the wind was howling. I got the fire going while she wandered the place like she was shopping for a vacation rental.

“You live like this all the time?” she asked.

“I train like this.”

She grinned. “You’re uptight.”

“You’re reckless.”

“Touché.”

She moved around the room, barefoot again, hair drying in waves. There was something about her—this wild calm—that got under my skin.

Then, out of nowhere, she said, “I’m not afraid of storms. But sometimes I get tired of chasing them.”

She told me about her dad. The accident. The reason she ran into danger with open arms.

I sat down beside her. “Control’s an illusion, Lark. All we can do is prepare for the worst and hold on to the people who matter when it hits.”

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