Page 22 of Wrecked on the Mountain
After a long day, I'm still pacing around my cabin like a caged animal, unable to stop thinking about the way Brooke felt inmy arms this afternoon. The way she looked up at me like she wanted me to kiss her.
Now I find myself standing in my kitchen, staring at the brown paper bag I've been filling and refilling for the last hour.
"This is stupid," I groan to myself, dragging a hand down my face. "She's a grown woman. She can buy her own gear."
But I keep thinking about her blue lips and frozen hands, about the way she mentioned liking purple when she was talking about her dad's favorite flowers.
And before I can talk myself out of it, I'm adding things to the bag.
A new thermal mug—purple, because it's obviously her favorite color. I also toss in thick, insulated gloves that we keep at the station, but now, she'll have a pair of her own.
Lastly, I fold up a trail map I drew myself, marking the route to my favorite sunrise spot on Cascade Ridge. It's the place I go when I need to think. It's my spot, my refuge, my escape.
And I've never shown it to anyone.
But I want her to have it.
Finally, I stuff a paper bag of the cinnamon cookies my mom made this morning, remembering how Brooke's voice cracked when she mentioned her dad's final days. How she'd spent two years watching him fade away.
No wonder she pushes herself so hard.
Maybe that's why I'm doing this. Because beneath all that city polish and medical brilliance is someone who's been carrying grief like a backpack full of stones since she was nine years old.
And this map that leads to my sunrise spot will help her. The place isn't just beautiful; it's peaceful. Healing. The kind of place where you can breathe without your chest aching.
And dammit, Brooke Shields, city-girl or not…temporaryor not…
She's one woman who needs to breathe.
Chapter Five
Brooke
I stumble back to the cabin, my lungs burning from pushing myself too hard on my post-work run. Three miles at this elevation is not the same as three miles in Chicago.
My ponytail's come half-undone, sweat dripping down my neck and still, it's not enough to cool me down after having those enormous,stronghands on me this afternoon.
"Water," I gasp, fumbling with my keys. "Need water before I—"
That's when I see it.
A brown paper bag sitting on my porch, propped against the door like a silent mysterious mountain messenger.
I freeze, staring at it like it might be a mirage. People don't leave things on porches in Chicago unless they're packages that have been delivered.
My lungs are burning, my legs feel like jelly, and I'm pretty sure I just got lapped by a seventy-year-old woman walking her dog.
But there's definitely a bag on my porch. It's not a mirage at all.
I pick it up cautiously, feeling its substantial weight as I unlock the door and stumble inside.
Kicking off my joggers, I set the bag on my kitchen counter and stare at it while I pour myself a glass of water. Then I make chamomile tea, because apparently I need to calm the fuck down before I can handle whatever's inside.
The last time someone left me a surprise, it was Dr. Richardson placing a bouquet of white lilies on my desk the day after Tyler Matthews died.
He gave me a damn sympathy card like I'd lost a family member instead of a patient. Like grief was something that could be fixed with flowers and platitudes.
I'd thrown them in the trash without reading the rest of the card.
