Page 31 of Rescuing Dr. Marian
I closed my eyes, fighting the urge to tell him it had meant something to me, too. That it had given me hope there was still someone out there for me… and then just as quickly dashed it, reminding me yet again that love was a false promise. Trust was an elusive thing, and it damned well didn’t grow on trees.
If someone as seemingly upright and good as Tommy Marian could kiss the fuck out of me one day and get married the next, there was no way to tell a trustworthy man from an untrustworthy one.
“Go to sleep, Tommy. It’s over and done.”
It wasn’t, not really, but there was no way in hell I’d ever let him hear it from me.
The silence stretched between us, heavy with everything we weren’t saying. Eventually, his breathing evened out, but I lay awake for hours, acutely aware of his presence just feet away, knowing that eight weeks of this was going to be the sweetest torture I’d ever endured.
8
TOMMY
The fourth dayof the program started at 6:00 a.m. with coffee that could strip paint and a breakfast briefing that would be quickly followed by the students’ first exercise in the field.
Just like the previous four nights, I’d barely slept, hyperaware of Foster’s breathing in the bed across from me. Every time he’d shifted, my body had gone on high alert, remembering the weight of his hands on my skin in Hawaii… and his obvious lack of interest now that we were in Montana.
Because despite our heated exchange on the drive back from town that first night, Foster had retreated back into professional mode as promised. Every attempt I’d made to talk to him since then had been shut down by polite dismissal.
Over and over since January, I’d told myself to stop thinking about the man. That our interaction had probably been a blip on his radar—and not one he cared to remember, given the way we’d parted.
But experiencing it up close and personal? Seeing him act cool and distant where he’d once been so warm and engaged? Having him so fucking close but not at all in the way I wanted him? It was soul-crushing. I felt even more depleted and hollowed out than I’d felt in New York.
Thankfully, the first few days of the program had been busy and overwhelming enough to distract me. Our schedules were packed with orientations, education sessions, and hands-on preparation. Although we’d been paired up several times in the course of our work, Foster had made it very clear he wanted to keep things professional, so I gave him the respect he deserved and stayed in my own damned lane.
During the day, that had worked fine. At night, however, it had been almost impossible. Being that close to something you wanted more than anything else in the world and knowing you couldn’t have it was excruciating.
By the time my alarm went off this morning, I felt like I’d run a marathon in my sleep.
Foster was already up, dressed in tactical pants and a dark SERA T-shirt that stretched across his shoulders in a way that should have been illegal. He’d taken Chickie out and returned with two cups of coffee, setting one on my nightstand without a word.
The gesture was so thoughtful it made my chest ache.
“Thanks,” I’d mumbled, wrapping my hands around the warmth.
He’d nodded curtly and gone back to checking his gear, his hands moving with calm competence.
It turned out Professional Foster was somehow even moredevastating than the man who’d kissed me breathless under Hawaiian palms.
I got dressed as quickly as I could and made my way out into the lingering chill of the Montana morning, needing a Foster-less minute to get my brain engaged and my pulse under control.
Despite the early hour, the SERA campus was already buzzing with instructors and students moving with purpose—some heading to breakfast, others coming back from the gym, chatting with coffees outside their cabins, or practicing harnessing techniques on the helo pad before the day heated up.
On the far side of the facility was a neatly arranged grid of clean-lined, single-story buildings that housed the classrooms, offices, dining hall, equipment garages, and the main building. Beyond, hiking trails of varying difficulties led through the foothills onto Slingshot Mountain, where the snow-dusted mountain caps were pink-tinged in the morning light.
I sucked in a deep lungful of air and felt my shoulders sink down from my ears. There was something about the air here, or maybe the call of the birds, or the way the sky stretched out so big and vast, that was both comforting and inspiring. I felt settled… and also like anything was possible.
A much calmer Tommy Marian walked into the yard outside the main building an hour later and found thirty students gathered around Trace. As our leader explained today’s mission—the first rescue drill—they buzzed with nervous energy, all of them eager to learn, to impress, and to get out on the mountain.
“Alright, listen up,” Trace began. “Everyone should already know which team they’ve been assigned to and which instructor will be overseeing your team for this first rotation.”
Thirty heads nodded.
I caught Foster’s eye across the yard, and we shared an amused look at their eagerness before he rememberedlookingwas unprofessional,or whatever the fuck, and resolutely looked away.
“You’ll be searching for a missing kayaker,” Trace continued, “who didn’t make it to their pickup point. Thirty-two-year-old blonde female, last seen at Hellgate Narrows near the Blacktail Overlook. She’s known to paddle a blue Pyranha Scorch with purple accents. That means this is possibly a swift-water rescue.” He nodded to Tevita, the instructor who specialized in swift-water rescues. “Group Four will be taking point on this, with the other teams providing support. Understood? Good. Everyone, gear up. You have ten minutes for prep and loading before we head to the river.”
My group immediately huddled together to discuss the best approach. “Okay, Group Two, what are we thinking for medical supplies?” I asked.
