Page 19 of Wrecked on the Mountain
"You don't have that in Chicago?"
She's quiet for a moment, watching the pine trees flash past. "I did, once. When I was a kid. But after my dad died..."
She pauses and I feel like an asshole for prying.
"You don't have to—"
"No, it's okay." She gives me a small smile. "He died when I was nine. Cancer. And after that, everything felt... temporary. Like I was just moving through places instead of actually living in them."
Nine years old.
This woman was nine when she lost a parent to cancer.
Christ. No wonder she became a doctor.
"I'm sorry," I say, and I mean it. "That's way too young to lose a parent."
"He would have loved this place," she continues, her voice getting stronger.
"Sounds like a smart man."
We keep talking about her life in Chicago, about her family and her favorite things, and once we've reached the trailhead, I park next to the information board.
The snow here is pristine, unmarked except for wildlife tracks, and the silence feels almost sacred.
"Wow," Brooke breathes, stepping out and turning in a slow circle to look around us. "This is..."
"Home," I finish, grabbing my pack and radio from the back seat. "Grab your gear, let's go."
We start walking toward the main trail, our boots disappearing in fresh snow. The cold air makes our breath visible, and I notice Brooke shoving her hands deeper into her jacket pockets.
"You cold?" I ask.
"A little." She shrugs like it's no big deal, but her cheeks are already pink.
"Didn't you grab gloves?"
"I... may have forgotten them."
Of course she did.City girl, trying to tough it out instead of admitting she's not prepared.
I stop walking and pull my thermos from my pack, unscrewing the cap and pouring hot liquid into the built-in cup.
"Here," I say, holding it out to her.
She takes it gratefully, wrapping her hands around the warm metal and taking a sip. I can't help but watch her full lips press against the rim of the cup, the way her throat moves as she swallows.
Then she stops, staring at the cup with complete bewilderment.
"This isn't coffee."
"No."
"This is..." She takes another sip. "This is hot chocolate. With…" She smacks those incredible lips together in a way that makes my cock fucking twitch. "Is that cinnamon?"
I can feel my ears getting red again. "It's good for morale."
"Jamie Striker," she says, and there's laughter in her voice now. "Are you telling me that the big, tough mountain rescue coordinator carries hot chocolate in his thermos?"
