Page 38 of Wrecked on the Mountain
Maybe, if I could just get some fucking sleep, I could—
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, cutting through my spiral with the harsh reality of always-on-the-call work. The display shows Knox's name, which means something's wrong at the station.
"What's the situation?" I answer, already swinging my legs out of bed.
"Sorry to bother you, Strike," Knox's voice crackles through the speaker. "But we've got a problem with the snowmobiles. Neither one will start, and with this weather system moving in tomorrow, we need them operational."
I glance at the clock: 11:47 PM. "Chase can't figure it out?"
"Chase is the one who broke them," Knox replies with irritation. "Something about 'routine maintenance' that turned into 'complete engine failure.'"
Of course. Chase Morrison, expert in everything except knowing when to stop helping.
"Fucks sake. I'll be there in twenty," I say, launching out of bed to throw some clothes on. "Tell Chase he's buying breakfast for the next month."
"Copy that."
To be fair, I'm actually grateful for the distraction as I dress quickly in cargo pants and a thermal shirt. Anything to get my mind off Brooke's mouth, the way her body felt pressed against mine, the promise of tomorrow morning at my sunrise spot.
I grab my jacket and truck keys, ready to lose myself in the familiar routine of fixing things that actually have solutions.
But when I slam the front door to my cabin shut, I see her.
Brooke is sitting on her porch in the dark, wrapped in what looks like a thick blanket, the purple travel mug I gave her cradled in her hands while she stares at something in her lap.
What the hell is she doing out here? It's freezing!
I change course, my boots crunching through the snow as I approach her cabin. The wind howls down the dark street and I move my legs faster. She looks up when she hears me coming, and even in the dim porch light, I can see something vulnerable in her expression.
"I know you city folk are crazy, but what the fuck are you doing sitting outside in the cold?" I ask, probably more gruffly than necessary.
She gives me a small smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Couldn't sleep. You?"
"Work call." I gesture toward my truck, then notice what's spread across her lap. "What you looking at?"
Her hands move protectively over a spread of photographs, like she's about to hide them, but then she seems to change her mind. She holds up a small photograph, and even from where I'm standing, I can see it's her as a kid, maybe seven or eight years old, sitting on a man's lap.
They're both grinning at the camera, and she's leaning forward to blow out a single candle stuck in what looks like a donut covered in rainbow sprinkles.
Her dad. Has to be.
"Birthday tradition," she says quietly, setting the photo back in her lap. "Dad always got me a sprinkle donut instead of cake. Said birthdays should be about the simple things that make you smile."
The loneliness in her voice makes me regret just dropping her off after the festival and going home. She's been sitting out here in the cold, looking at pictures of her dead father on her birthday. I should have been here with her.
Feeling frustrated but unsure how to fix it, I notice she takes a sip from the purple mug, and something about the way she savors it makes me suspicious.
"Please tell me you're not drinking wine out of my travel mug," I say.
She looks down at the mug, then back at me with a cute smile. "Okay. I won't tell you that."
"Christ, Brooke. Don't the damn landlords have wine glasses inside?"
"They do." She takes another deliberate sip, smacking her lips together. "I just really like this mug."
The way she's holding that thirty-dollar travel mug like it's some kind of precious heirloom makes me want to buy her a dozen more just to see that soft look in her eyes again.
Christ.
