Page 8 of Found By the Mountain Man
The movement causes the blanket to slip, revealing the curve of her shoulder in the t-shirt I'd given her to replace her wet clothes. My throat goes dry as I remember the clinical necessity of getting her out of those soaked garments, the way I'd triedto maintain professional detachment while noting that she was even more beautiful than I'd initially realized.
I had no business noticing any of that. I'm a trained EMT, for Christ's sake. I've treated hundreds of patients without letting personal attraction cloud my judgment.
But none of those patients were Mavis Aldana.
None of them had looked at me with those dark eyes full of intelligence and gratitude and something that might have been interest, if I wasn't imagining things.
None of them had made me want to throw away fifteen years of professional ethics for the chance to find out what it would feel like to touch them when it wasn't about medical necessity.
I scrub my hands over my face, trying to reset my thinking. This is exactly the kind of situation that gets rescue personnel in trouble. Vulnerable victim, isolated setting, heightened emotions from a life-threatening situation. Textbook case for inappropriate attachment and poor decision-making.
A particularly strong gust of wind shakes the cabin, and Mavis's eyes snap open. She looks around, momentarily confused, before her gaze settles on me.
"Connor?" Her voice is soft, still heavy with sleep. "Everything okay?"
"Storm's getting worse," I explain, trying to sound casual. "Didn't mean to wake you."
She sits up slowly, wincing slightly. The movement causes her hair to fall in waves around her shoulders, and I have to grip the arms of my chair to keep from reaching out to touch it.
"How long was I asleep?"
"About three hours. How are you feeling?"
"Better. Still sore, but more human." She looks toward the windows, where snow continues to pile against the glass. "We're really snowed in, aren't we?"
"Looks that way. Jake radioed—we might be here until the day after tomorrow."
I watch her process this information, looking for signs of panic or distress. Instead, she just nods thoughtfully.
"I should probably call my editor. Let her know I'm safe but might be delayed getting the photos to her."
"Phone won't work until the storm passes," I tell her. "Satellite reception is down."
"So we're completely cut off."
"Yeah. Are you okay with that?" I ask, though I'm not sure I want to know the answer.
She looks at me for a long moment, and I see something shift in her expression. A decision being made.
"Yeah," she says softly. "I think I am."
I should look away. Should suggest she get more sleep, or offer to make more soup, or find some other way to defuse this moment before it becomes something we can't take back.
Instead, I find myself leaning forward slightly, drawn by something I can't name and shouldn't want.
"Mavis," I say.
"Connor," she responds, and there's something in her voice that makes my blood heat.
Something that's going to test every bit of self-control I thought I had.
five
Mavis
ThewayConnorsaysmy name sends heat racing through my veins. There's something in his voice I've never heard before, something that makes my breath catch and my pulse quicken.
"Connor," I whisper back, and I watch his pupils dilate in the firelight.
