Page 22 of Rescuing Dr. Marian
As I made my way back out to my truck, Chickie trotting at my heels, I tore open the flap of the envelope and pulled out my room key, along with a couple of folded pages.
“The fuck?” I breathed, staring at the rooming assignment.
Cabin 8: Dr. Thomas Marian, Director of Emergency Medicine, and Foster Blake, Director of Search and Rescue.
I stared at the names to see if my brain or eyes could possibly be playing tricks on me. But no, the words were there.
The two of us were sharing a cabin.
I ran a hand through my hair and huffed out a humorless laugh. Seriously, what were the fucking chances?
Actually, probably pretty good if Desi had been shacking up with the previous medical guy.Fuck.
Chick looked up at me with those trusting brown eyes, completely unaware of the shit storm brewing. I took a deep breath and tried to get ahold of myself.
Maybe I should leave. Maybe this was a sign I should goback to Majestic and focus on my own damned career instead of my SAR obsession.
I gritted my teeth and shook my head. I’d be damned if I’d let some selfish-as-fuck,marriedcity boy take away my opportunity to teach and learn about one of my favorite topics.
No, I wouldn’t be leaving. If Dr. Marian didn’t want a reminder of his indiscretions, then he would have to be the one to leave.
“Come on, girl,” I said, tugging gently on her leash.
I walked out of the main hall without looking back to see where the good doctor was, but there was no need. The image of Tommy Marian’s beautiful fucking face had been seared into my memory six long months ago.
It was going to be an excruciating summer.
6
TOMMY
I was freakingthe fuck out.
The moment Foster Blake walked out of orientation, my professional facade cracked. My hands shook as I gathered my papers, barely registering the confused looks from the other instructors as they filed out.
How was it possible this man was here right now? He was a sheriff in a completely different state—okay, fine, the state right next door, but sheriffs didn’t have time to go off teaching wilderness courses, especially during peak tourist season. Did they?
And how had I known it was his peak tourist season? I might have googled Majestic, Wyoming. I might even have bookmarked the sheriff’s office page and spent several hours going down rabbit holes until I found a gap-toothed photo of him holding up a silvery-scaled river trout:“Local legend in themaking! 14-year-old Foster Blake snagged ‘Biggest Catch’ at this year’s Majestic River Round-Up.”
The universe had a sick sense of humor, throwing Foster back into my path just when I’d convinced myself our kiss in Hawaii had been a fever dream brought on by pre-wedding panic and too much bourbon.
Except I knew it hadn’t been the alcohol. It had been him. All him. His laugh, his eyes, the way he’d pulled me against him like he’d wanted to climb inside my skin…
“Tommy? You good?”
I jumped, scattering papers across the floor. Trace, the program director and a good friend of our family, stood in the doorway with one eyebrow raised.
“Fine! Totally fine. Just…” I gestured vaguely at the mess. “Gravity, you know?”
“Uh-huh.” Trace crossed his arms. “Want to tell me what that was about?”
“What what was about?”
“The tension thick enough to cut with a knife between you and my SAR guy? The way you both looked like you’d seen a ghost?”
Fuck.I should have known Trace would notice. The man tracked mountain lions for fun. Reading people was child’s play by comparison.
“It’s…” I swallowed hard. “I know him. From Hawaii.”
